


Christmas Cards: 2001

by kuzibah



Series: Christmas Cards [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Child Death, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: This is the third Buffy Christmas series I wrote, in 2001. These were also written for the Buffy Cross and Stake message board but by this time I had my own fanfic page at Geocities. As with the previous series, each chapter is a short stand-alone story, although they are intended to be read as a set. To refresh your memory, this was the middle of the sixth season of "Buffy" and the third season of "Angel," and the stories take place in that timeframe. The chapter top notes are the same ones I posted on them at the time. Also, last year’s series was loosely themed around music. This year’s series is loosely themed around gatherings and food, so I’ve included recipes. Blame Laura Esquivel.
Series: Christmas Cards [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627252
Kudos: 1





	1. Little Saint Nick (part 1): Spike

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on Little Saint Nick (part 1): I normally write these stories as stand-alones, but this one is really two interlocking stories, so I’m presenting them separately. The second part will be posted on Christmas Eve, with a tiny crossover into Angel’s story, also Christmas Eve. Don’t worry, they’ll all be at the archive together if you miss it. Everything in italics is a flashback.
> 
> Warning: This story could very easily be called “A Vampire Christmas,” so it’s definitely NOT sweet and light with warm fuzzy feelings. If cute little kids getting eaten skeeves you, you might want to skip this one.

**6:18 p.m., December 18th, 2001**

"What's this, then?" Spike said as he climbed from the underground part of his crypt to find Dawn sitting quietly on the stone sarcophagus. "You know Buffy would stake us both if she knew you were here."

"That's what I wanted to talk about," Dawn said.

"Until she wants to talk about it," Spike said, "I don't have anything to say. She's the one playing games, not me."

"Can we stop this!" Dawn shouted, startling even herself by the sudden noise. "I just want to get through Christmas without all this fighting," she said more quietly. "Mom is dead, and Buffy is so... I want to give her something special, but I'm going to need your help, so can't you call a truce or a cease-fire or something?"

Spike gave the girl a smirk. "You playing negotiator?"

Dawn looked back with a determined set to her jaw. "If you want to call it that. You just be nice to each other through New Year's. Can you agree to that?"

Spike did a small mental calculation. "That's two weeks. Okay, I'm in. I promise to be at least civil to your sister if she can be civil to me."

"Thank you," Dawn said.

"Now what kind of help do you need?" Spike said. "Have something you need killed."

"Not quite," Dawn said, suddenly embarrassed.

"Out with it, then," the vampire prompted.

"Well, it's a sort of breaking and entering thing..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Spike hesitated for several minutes on the Summers porch, reluctant to knock. Just as he had worked up the courage and raised his hand, the door opened to show Dawn's solemn face. "Please come in," she said.

Spike entered the living room. A Christmas tree twinkled in the usual spot and a lively fire crackled in the fireplace. A perfect holiday scene if you didn't notice the hollow-eyed girl staring blankly into the flames.

"Spike is here," Dawn said.

Buffy turned to him, her face tight.

"I'm only here because of little bit," Spike said defensively.

"I know," Buffy said shortly.

"I can keep my tongue if you can," Spike said.

"If you can, I certainly can," Buffy said.

"This is great," Dawn said with forced cheer.

"Alright then," Spike said. "I'll be off."

"Thanks for stopping by," Buffy said.

Slayer and vampire glared at each other a moment longer, then Spike turned to Dawn. "What we discussed," he said, "I'll be in touch."

"What do you mean, 'what you discussed'?" Buffy said, anger rising in her voice.

"That's not any of your business, now, is it," Spike shot back.

"Guys!" Dawn shouted, and both turned to her, chagrined.

"I mean," Spike said, "it's private. Sort of a Christmas thing. I better go." And he was out the door.

Dawn managed to evade Buffy's follow-up discussion rather deftly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Spike couldn't go back to his crypt right away. He was too restless, too keyed up. What difference does Christmas make to a vampire? he asked himself. You're getting soft and stupid, falling apart over a silly, saccharine holiday- that's *religious,* for Hell's sake- because some cloyingly cute little human you wouldn't have bothered to kill not that long ago got all sentimental on you.

Vampires just didn't *do* Christmas.

No, that wasn't entirely true. There had been a time, when he was still young...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_London, Christmastide 1888~_

_"I think we should go to Morocco," Darla announced. "Someplace warm. I hate the winters in England."_

_Drusilla greeted this proclamation with dismay, fluttering her hands and keening. "But... it's nearly Christmas," she said. "Surely we can't leave before the New Year?"_

_Spike moved closer to his beloved, stroking her shoulder to calm her. He glared across at Darla._

_"And whyever not?" Darla said. "It's not as if Christmas means anything to us. Isn't that right, Angelus?"_

_Angelus looked up from his newspaper and looked around the room. Clearly he had missed the preceding exchange, but something had upset his beloved Dru. "I'm sorry, Darla," he said, "just reading the latest about Whitecastle. What was the question?"_

_"Dru seems to be unique among vampires in her desire to celebrate Christmas," Darla said._

_"No, I want to, too," Spike said quickly, compelled to defend his Sire._

_"Fine," Darla said. "The *children* would like gifts and a party, while I think we should do the sensible thing and go south before we're completely snowed in."_

_Angelus looked back and forth between his Sire and his Childe, and came to a decision. “I doubt the entire North Atlantic will freeze solid in the next week,” he said. “And it will take time to close down the house and prepare to sail, anyway. We’ll stay through Christmas and leave right after.”_

_“It’s already freezing,” Darla complained._

_Angelus rose and knelt beside her, kissing and nuzzling her neck. “We’ll just have to stay in and keep warm,” he purred._

_Darla was weakening. “I’m not celebrating any Christian holidays,” she said, and Drusilla made a disappointed whine._

_“But that’s the whole point,” the younger vampiress complained._

_Angelus was losing patience. “We’ll just have to celebrate our own way,” he said._

_“What are you talking about?” Darla said._

_“Leave it to me, dearest,” Angelus said soothingly, continuing his ministrations at Darla’s throat._

_“Well…”_

_Spike lifted Drusilla and spirited her out into the hall. “You’ll get your Christmas, pet,” he told her. “Don’t you worry.”_

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_Spike was roused from where he dozed in an easy chair by a sharp kick to his leg._

_“Get up,” Angelus snarled._

_Spike got to his feet, sneering. “Where are we going?”_

_Angelus smiled. “It’s Christmas Eve, William, and we haven’t gotten a single present for the ladies. Now make yourself presentable. We’ve a lot of stops to make.”_

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_Spike was dragged from shop to shop by Angelus, occasionally offering his opinion on the gifts the older vampire was purchasing for the ladies of their little household. Apparently Drusilla and Darla had been sent to a theatrical performance for the evening, with a request to not eat too much on the way home. Clearly, they suspected Angelus had something up his sleeve, but they were willing to go along with it._

_In short order decorations and a meal of fine and rare delicacies were dispatched to the house the vampires shared, to transform the main dining room into a lavish holiday display. Then Spike found himself being taken to a less savory part of London._

_Finally, he thought, we get to the meat of the thing. No pun intended, he added to himself._

_At the doorstep, Angelus adjusted Spike's hat and cravat, ignoring the younger one's squirming, and brushed non-existent dust from his lapels. The door cracked open to reveal a stern-looking woman in a rather severe dress._

_"Good evening, sister," Angelus said warmly. “We’re sorry to be bothering you so late in the evening on tonight of all nights, but my partner and I were hoping to contribute a bit of Christmas cheer to the poor, unfortunate children in your care. Might we come in out of the cold?”_

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_Spike had to admit, the two blond tots Angelus had plucked from their beds with promises of toys and sweets and taken to be dressed by one of the finest tailors on Seville Row were the very picture of innocent beauty. Their frocks of festive red velvet gave a false impression of rosy health to their undernourished bodies; they could easily belong to any wealthy family._

_Angelus hailed a cab and put Spike and the children into it. "Take them home, William," he said. "See that they're well fed, the food should be all laid out by now. I've a few more things to attend to, but I'll be home well before the ladies. Take care they don't spoil their clothes." And the cab was off._

_The children were staring at him, wide-eyed, now, and Spike shifted under their gaze. He disliked these games that Angelus played, and they were doubly difficult with children. Always they hinged on being accepted as human, and while children could be fooled for a bit, it was never for long. Too much work, in Spike's eyes, for what should be an easy meal. Usually Spike quickly abandoned such charades and simply started eating._

_On the other hand, from the looks of the nurse they'd left on the orphanage floor, these two were probably used to cold and distant adults._

_They reached the townhouse Angelus had rented for them in short order, and Spike herded the children inside. As expected, the dining table was laden with food, and a serving-maid, not much older than the children, stood ready to serve them. "Sit down," Spike told the children. "Help yourselves to whatever you like."_

_The children didn't need to be told twice, and stuffed fruit and sweets into their mouths with both hands. "See they stay clean," Spike told the maid, and he left them to survey the rest of the house._

_He was surprised by how quickly the rooms on the main floor had been transformed. Not a doorway, windowframe, or mantlepiece was unadorned by ribbons and greenery. He had to admit, Angelus knew how to throw a party._

_In the parlor, a stack of paper-wrapped boxes covered one of the small tables, gifts of jewelry and clothes for the ladies, and a small decorated tree. Looking closer, Spike saw all the decorations were black, red, and silver, creating a suitably Gothic appearance._

_As Spike was admiring the room, he heard the front door open, and the voice of Angelus calling to him. He stepped into the hall and found his Grand-Sire smiling and jolly, his cheeks ruddy from a recent feed._

_Right bastard, Spike thought. Sending me off with the kids while he cares for his own needs._

_"I'm sorry, William," Angelus said, his voice full of laughter. "I stopped for some absinthe and laudanum, and it seems the dealer had been sampling the wares. Ah, me head, it's spinning. Have the children eaten?"_

_"Should be just finishing up," Spike said with a glance towards the dining room._

_Angelus handed the younger vampire a paper packet. "It's in there," he said. "Give the children a bit. Put the little lambs right to sleep. What the hell, have the maid drink some, too. It's Christmas." He dropped heavily into an easy chair. "Bring them back here when they've nodded off. Put them under the tree. I'm just going to take forty winks here, meself..."_

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_Spike woke up from where he'd fallen asleep on the floor of the warm parlor after arranging the sleeping children under the tree and the young maid on the nearby chair. He heard Darla and Drusilla on the front steps, the older vampiress complaining, as usual. Spike climbed to his feet, awakening Angelus, who, it appeared, had recovered from the effects of his earlier meal._

_Angelus looked from the direction of the front door, quickly around the room, and then at Spike. He gave a disapproving look to the younger vampire, muttering something about shirtsleeves, and then looked around the room again. Slowly he smiled. "It's lovely, William," he said softly. "Let's meet the ladies, now."_

_They met Darla and Drusilla just as they entered the house. Darla frowned as she noticed the decorations, even as Dru cooed in delight. Angelus swept his Sire up in an embrace and kissed her lightly. "Merry Christmas, my love," he said._

_"Daddy," Dru whispered. "Has Father Christmas been here?"_

_Angelus laughed, but Spike took the cue. "Yes, he has, precious," Spike told her. "And he's left a very special gift for the wickedest vampires in England."_

_Unable to contain herself, Dru pushed past Spike into the parlor and gave an excited squeal. Darla turned to Angelus with a questioning look. "Do I smell... children?" she said._

_Angelus smirked. "Indeed you do," he said. "Sweet little things." He glanced sidelong at Spike. "Father Christmas apparently thought you were very, very wicked this year. There's also some sparkly things he thought you'd like, as well."_

_Darla smiled fondly. "I never should have doubted you, my darling boy," she said, moving into the parlor._

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_It was only about an hour until dawn when Spike and Angelus stripped their victims' bodies of their holiday finery and threw them into the shallows of the river under a bridge. The oily mud quickly sucked them down, and what the rats did not consume would be buried at the next high tide._

_"You did a fine job this evening, William," Angelus said as they walked home. "Darla and Dru were pleased, and so was I."_

_"Thank you," Spike said._

_"I wonder how we'll top it next year?" Angelus mused. "Of course, now that we know, we can get an earlier start, throw a proper party." The older vampire laughed wickedly. "Perhaps we should dress the children as Christmas Angels," he said. "Halos and paper wings. Wouldn't that be the most wonderful blasphemy?"_

_"As long as there's one for me, I don't care what the hell they wear," Spike said, but he was only teasing, and Angelus knew it._

_"Did Father Christmas forget our youngest?" Angelus said as they reached the front door of their house. "What a terrible oversight."_

_Spike scowled at his Sire, but didn't want to ruin the lovely evening by starting a fight._

_Angelus unlocked the door, and as he slipped the key into his pocket he drew out a small wrapped box. "Allow me to rectify that," he said._

_Spike took the package, and with a questioning look unwrapped it. Inside was a small key. "What's this?" he said._

_Angelus held the door open. "Why don't you take Dru up to your bedroom and find out," he said._

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

_The well-made wooden locker filled with chains, shackles, ropes, and straps that Spike found at the foot of his bed was his favorite Christmas present ever._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Of course, that had been a long time ago, back when he was a child himself, by vampire standards. When Angelus was an indulgent Sire, and no one had ever heard of gypsies or soul curses, and microchips didn't get shoved in your brain. Things were more complicated, now.

Spike found himself on what passed for a main street in Sunnydale, the entirety of which would have fit inside Harrod's, and watched through the window as two clerks in Wayman's Drugstore tidied up for the evening. Like shops all over the world, the drugstore had brought out displays and signs proclaiming one thing or the other the perfect gift, and Spike suddenly thought he should get something for Buffy and Dawn.

As he turned from the window he laughed to himself. Had Angelus felt the same way all those years ago about him and Darla and Dru, thinking about what they would like and how he could get it?

Of course, this was more complicated, too. Buffy wouldn't want anything he'd stolen or terrorized someone into giving him. Dawn might, but Buffy wouldn't like him encouraging *that* impulse either. He'd think of something, he supposed.

(To be continued…)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Angelus’s Wassail**

_“It’s a wee bit complicated, but that’s what servants are for.” – Angelus_  
• 1 cup water   
• pinch of nutmeg   
• pinch of mace  
• 3 cloves  
• ½ tsp. ground allspice  
• 1 tsp. powdered ginger  
• 1 stick cinnamon  
• 4 bottles good red wine  
• 1 dozen eggs, separated  
• 1 dozen apples  
First, bake the apples in a 325 degree oven until tender, about 30 to 40 minutes. 

Boil water while adding spices. Remove from heat, cool, and boil again. Place wine in large pan over low heat, and add spiced water. 

Beat the egg yolks and whites separately, then mix them together. Place this mixture in the punch bowl, and pour in the heated wine, beating constantly. Don’t pour in the hot wine too fast, or the frothy consistency will be lost. Have a cat o’ nine tails at the ready to threaten the kitchen maids if they are impatient.

Cut the hot apples in half, add them to the punch bowl, and ‘Wassail’ to you all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Darla’s Party Eggnog**

_“Really the only tolerable thing about the holiday.” – Darla_  
• 1 pint brandy  
• ½ pint rye whiskey  
• 4 oz. sherry  
• 4 oz. rum  
• 1 dozen eggs, separated  
• ¾ cup sugar  
• 1 qt. Milk  
• 1 qt. Cream  
Combine liquors. Beat egg yolks in a large bowl until thick, then beat in sugar, Gradually add liquor, then milk and cream while continuing to beat. Beat egg whites to stiff, not dry, peaks; fold into liquid mixture. Have Angelus threaten the kitchen staff if they start to complain about all this egg beating. Cover and refrigerate at least five days before serving.


	2. Hanging Up My Stockings: Fred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything in italics is a flashback.

**10:24 a.m., December 20th, 2001**

Friday:

“What’s she doing in there?” Cordy whispered to Wesley as yet another crash of pots and pans came from the recently re-opened hotel kitchens.

“All I know is she asked to prepare Christmas dinner for all of us,” Wesley said distractedly, as he copied notes on his latest translation work.

“Christmas dinner?!” Cordy was shocked. “Isn’t this the same girl who was making bark tacos six months ago?”

“Angel insists she’s a fine cook,” Wesley said defensively. “And seeing as it’s five days before Christmas you can’t say she’s not well-prepared.”

“Angel doesn’t eat,” Cordy pointed out.

They were interrupted by the sound of breaking crockery, followed by Fred calling out, “I’m all right!”

“Perhaps we should check on her,” Wesley said.

The large hotel galley was mostly empty, but the corner where Fred was working was in cluttered disarray. Shattered bowls lay at Fred’s feet while another top-heavy stack wobbled precariously. There were green produce containers of various shapes and sizes strewn about, not to mention boxes of groceries, and strangest of all, a wooden crate with a live rooster staring balefully out at the chaos.

“Tacos. Made of bark,” Cordy reminded Wesley under her breath.

“Fred,” Wesley said tentatively. “Did you perhaps want a little help?”

“Oh, no,” Fred said, trying to pick up five baskets of vegetables. “It’s just all the food was delivered at once and I’m a bit flustered. It’ll be under control in a minute.” She gave her nervous laugh, and Wesley and Cordelia exchanged looks.

“Let me take some of those,” Wesley said, taking some of the vegetables out of her hands. Wordlessly, Cordy moved the bowls into three separate stacks. 

At that moment, the rooster chose to announce its presence with a loud crow. All three jumped, Cordy making a cry of surprise. Fred shoved her baskets into Wesley’s hands. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just put him out in the yard until it’s time to…” she lowered her voice. “…you know.”

The kitchen door slammed open and Angel skidded in, brandishing an ax. “Where is it?” he panted.

“What?” Wesley said.

The rooster crowed again, and Angel jumped back.

“Sorry,” Fred repeated.

“What the hell is…” Angel shouted, then got control of himself. “Fred,” he began very patiently. “Why is there a live chicken in my hotel?”

“It’s for Christmas dinner,” Fred informed him in a surprisingly reasonable tone of voice.

Angel gave a small shudder. “Could you please take it outside?” he said.

“Let me do that for you, Fred,” Wesley said, lifting the wooden crate.

“If everything is okay, then…” Angel said, and practically ran out the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_”I’d like to make Christmas dinner.”_

_Angel looked up from his books. “You’re welcome to cook anything you want, Fred. This is your home.”_

_“I know that. But I meant for everybody.”_

_“Oh…”_

_“Please, Angel, I’ll take care of everything. I want to do something special, to thank you all.”_

_“Yes. Of course. Um… let me know if I can do anything.”_

_“You won’t. It’ll be great. You’ll see.”_

_“I’m sure it will.”_

_“And Christmas Eve, too…”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Saturday:

Fred crossed the lobby from the kitchen to the weapons cabinet and picked out a slender dagger.

Lorne glanced up from where he was reading the '25 Most Intriguing People of 2001' issue of _People_. "Do you need something, Fred?" he asked.

"No," she said. "These avocados are just kind of hard."

"You should probably let them ripen a day or two, honey."

She replaced the knife. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

A thought suddenly occurred to the demon. "How is the main course doing?"

Fred brightened. "Oh, fine. I fed him some corn and suet yesterday, and I'm going to give him nothing but apples today and tomorrow so the meat is really sweet and tender."

Lorne was intrigued. "Will that work?"

"Here's hoping," Fred told him.

"I hate to suggest this," Lorne said, "but I did grow up on a farm. If you need any help when, uh, the time comes, you'll let me or one of the other manly men in this place know, won't you?"

"Oh, the slaughter should be a piece of cake," Fred said, waving her hand. "You remember the Loch'Nars in Pylea? I did in a few of them in my day."

"All by yourself? I'm impressed."

"They're big, but not that bright," Fred explained. "I think they might have been related to emus, or possibly the extinct rocs, but suffice it to say they were pretty easily fooled by..." She took a breath. "I mean, it should be okay."

"Just don't hesitate to ask," Lorne emphasized.

"I won't," she said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_"What are all these books?"_

_"The cookbooks of the former master chefs of the hotel. I'm picking out the recipes for Christmas."_

_"You realize some of these books are over seventy years old."_

_"Food's food, right?"_

_"But styles in food change. The way food is prepared..."_

_"I'm sure I'll adapt."_

_"Okay..."_

_"Some of these guys seem a little weird, though. The marginal notes..."_

_"Well, they were working in a hotel haunted by an ancient demon looking to drive the inhabitants mad with paranoia."_

_"Oh, is that what it was? That makes sense, then."_

_"Really? Good."_

_"The Latin, though... how to explain the Latin..."_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sunday:

Fred was slicing vegetables and putting them in bowls while saucepans simmered on the stove and breads and cakes baked in the oven. The entire kitchen was filled with the delicious aroma.

Gunn entered carrying two bags from the Chinese grocery and paused to inhale deeply. "You know," he said, "I wasn't too sure about this dinner when I saw some of the things you ordered from Lung-Wan's, but after smelling this kitchen..." He put the bags on the counter and cracked open the oven to peek in. "I don't suppose I could get a sneak preview, could I?"

Fred batted him away with a spatula. "You'll have to wait," she said. "But some of that's for tomorrow night, so it won't be too long." She went to the grocery bags and began to remove the items, mostly fish and shellfish, but a few odd items like crystalized ginger and dried octopus.

"I hope that's everything," he said.

"It looks like it is," she said. "Thank you, Charles."

"Hey, anytime."

"Now go away," she said. "I need to work."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_"The Enchanted Greenhouse- Herbs for all your magical needs. Digitalis speaking."_

_"Hello. This is Fred from Angel Investigations. I had an order to place."_

_"Oh, hey, Fred. No problem. Shoot."_

_"Dried sage, rosemary, thyme, marjoram, coriander, fennel, rue, Italian parsley, nutmeg, ginger, allspice, and arrowroot."_

_"What are you guys doing over there? Some kind of remembrance spell?"_

_"No, Christmas dinner."_

_"Oh. Got you. You do know Italian parsley and coriander are the same thing, right?"_

_"No, I didn't."_

_"It's okay. I'll include some fresh and some dried. Hey, I'll throw in a kitchen witch, too."_

_"A kitchen witch?"_

_"Magical totem doll. Looks like a witch on a broom. You hang it in the kitchen, it's supposed to help your cooking."_

_"It certainly wouldn't hurt."_

_"We ordered a bunch from this warlock in Sherman Oaks. He sculpts them by hand. Don't know how well they work, but they're cute."_

_"That's terrific, Digi. You have a happy holiday."_

_"Thanks, Fred. Blessings of the Goddess on all of you, too."_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Monday (Christmas Eve) Morning:

It was just past dawn as Fred and Wesley stepped into the still-shadowed courtyard. The rooster, in its crate, watched them.

"I decided to do this when Angel is sound asleep," Fred said, "in case it makes noise. I don't think he likes chickens all that much."

"What do we need to do it?" Wesley asked, picking up the crate and following Fred back to the kitchen. "Will a cleaver do, or shall I get an axe? And how do we hold it down?"

"Wesley, you don't kill chickens that way." Fred was clearly amused. "I mean, you can, but it's messy. I'll show you a much easier way." Back in the kitchen, now, Fred lowered the pot rack and removed all the pots.

"Watch," she said quietly, and approached the crate. "Easy now," she said soothingly, and she eased her hands inside the crate. With surprising speed she grabbed the rooster’s neck in one hand and both scaly feet in the other. She pulled it out, holding it tight while it flapped its wings, and held it head down.

Quickly its struggles eased, then ceased altogether. She let its neck go, holding it upside-down by its feet until it was completely still.

Wesley was astounded. "Is it dead?"

"Not yet. Just asleep." Using heavy cord, she tied the bird to the pot rack by its feet. She took a large basin and placed it underneath, then fetched a long butcher's knife from the drawer.

The rooster didn't even move as she neatly sliced its head from its body. Its blood streamed out into the basin.

"Here," Fred said to Wesley, handing him a large stock pot. "Fill this halfway with warm water while I get the rooster plucked and cleaned."

"What's this for?" Wesley asked.

"We'll mix up a strong salt solution and soak the bird overnight," she told him. "The brine will leach out all the blood and make it more tender. It's a simple osmosis reaction, with the less salty fluid in the bird’s body drawn into the more salty brine solution and never mind. It's not really important."

"No, it's interesting," Wesley assured her. "I never thought of cooking as a chemical process, but of course it is."

Fred started pulling the bird's feathers off in large handfuls. "I just hope it works in a practical application," she said, "and not just in theory."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_“I’m here to pick up an order for Fred, of Angel Investigations.”_

_“Yes. Thirty-six dollar.”_

_“Oof. What all did she order, anyway.”_

_“Many things. Eel. Stingray. Dried octopus. All very fresh.”_

_“Even the dried octopus?”_

_“Ha, ha. Very funny, smart boy. You lucky I like Fred. She gets the best of the best. These fish are from waters sacred to Yuan-lin. There is no better fish in California.”_

_“Thanks, then. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”_

_“You tell her happy holiday from me.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Christmas Eve Dinner:

Angel checked the stew in the slow-cooker for the twentieth time since Gunn, Fred, and Cordelia had left for services at the interdenominational Church of Los Angeles, which ran a mission and soup kitchen in the nearby Episcopal church.

Angel, Lorne, and Wesley had been invited, of course, but Wes said churches always made him feel hypocritical, since he subscribed to no particular faith, Angel had begged off to stay home with his son, and Lorne, well, demon.

So Fred had asked them to keep an eye on the cooking, and off they'd gone. Now, intellectually, Angel knew the slow-cooker was one of the more fool-proof appliances in the kitchen, designed to be left alone for hours at a time, but the cooking experience he had and an instinctual fear of fire compelled Angel to poke his head in and give the pot a quick stir every five minutes. At last he just wheeled Connor in in his pram, brought his book, and sat in the kitchen.

"I didn't mean you had to watch it every second," Fred said when she came home.

"I didn't mind," Angel said.

"Well, take the baby and go to the dining room," she said. "I'll be out in a jiffy."

Angel did, to find the rest of them waiting patiently, their hands folded. Angel took his chair.

"I must say, I am intrigued by what she's got cooking in there," Wesley said. "My mouth's been watering for days."

"I'll say," Gunn agreed. "If it tastes half as good as it smells..."

"Dinner is served," Fred announced, wheeling in a tea cart with a soup tureen, several serving bowls, and a basket of rolls.

"What are we having?" Cordelia asked.

"It's a seven-fish stew," Fred said. "It's a traditional Christmas Eve meal in the Catholic tradition. I'm not sure why seven fish..."

"They represent the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit," Angel said. The others turned to him for a moment.

"I'm sure it's delicious," Wesley said, passing the rolls, creamed cabbage, fried potatoes, and citrus salad, while Fred ladled the stew into bowls.

"I almost forgot," Fred said when all had been served, and she handed Angel a stein of warm beef blood.

"Thanks, Fred," he said.

Cordelia tasted her first spoonful of stew and clutched Angel's leg with her free hand. "Oh. My. God." she said. "This is the most delicious fish I've ever tasted. And I've been to some of the finest restaurants in Europe."

"Thank you," Fred said.

"Let me just say," Gunn said, "if this is the preview, dinner tomorrow is going to be the greatest meal in the history of the world."

"I must agree," Wesley said. "You really have outdone yourself."

No one spoke for several minutes as they savored the stew. Finally, Cordelia did.

"You know, we should all stay here tonight. That is, if Angel and Fred don't mind. We were planning to come over tomorrow to exchange gifts, anyway. It would be fun."

Angel looked uncertain. "Well..."

"I'd like that," Fred said, and the vampire nodded in agreement.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_“Fred, what are you still doing up?”_

_“I want it all to be perfect, Angel.”_

_“It will be. Just relax and go back to bed.”_

_“Okay. I will. It’s just… you know weird things always happen to us.”_

_“And they always will. It’s part of the job. But there can be good weird things, too.”_

_“Like vampires with souls.”_

_“Yes, exactly like that. Go up to your room, Fred.”_

_*chuckle* “It’s after midnight. Merry Christmas.”_

_“Yeah, Merry Christmas. And *goodnight*.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angel cooked them breakfast the next morning and served it on fine china and crystal from the hotel stores. They carried a TV into Angel's rooms and lounged on his bed and chairs watching the Hollywood Christmas Parade and "It's a Wonderful Life."

Fred kept herself busy all day, preparing the table and the meal. She refused to even let the others in the kitchen, though they offered repeatedly to help.

Dinner was served just after sunset, and the table was radiantly lit with dozens of candles. The aromas that rose from the chafing dishes and serving bowls was heady, and all sat impatiently waiting for the signal to start.

"I just wanted to say," Fred began softly, "that I am so grateful to you all for taking me in. I really like the work I do here, and I just love you all."

"We love you, too, Fred," Wesley said, and all agreed.

A smile spread over Fred's face. "Well, dig in," she said.

They did, at first trying to take samples of everything, then giving up and resigning themselves to the pleasant prospect of a second plateful each. As they began to eat, they all seemed overcome by a quiet stillness.

Gunn spoke first. "Fred... where did you get this recipe?"

"They were all in the hotel's files," she said, "and I did a little improvising on my own. Why?"

"This tastes exactly, and I mean exactly, like the stuffing and greens my grandmother made when I was small. Before she died." Gunn's eyes filled, and he blinked to clear them. "I haven't tasted them in almost... twenty years."

"I was thinking sort of the same thing," Cordelia said. "This risotto tastes exactly like the one my parents and I had in the Italian Alps the Christmas right before... before they were arrested."

"And the bread..." Wesley broke one of the small, round loaves and inhaled deeply. The others could barely hear his next words. "...I'd almost forgotten."

"This Pylean meatloaf," Lorne said. "How did you ever..?"

Fred smiled. "Curried goat. Pretty close, don't you think?"

They turned to Angel, who shook his head. "Sorry," he told them. "It all tastes the same to me."

"That's because the one I made special for you is a dessert dish," Fred said. "Let me get it."

She brought a small, fudge-like tart and placed it in front of Angel.

"Chocolate?" Wesley asked.

"No," Angel said. "Blood."

Cordelia and Gunn recoiled but Wesley brightened. "Of course," he said. "The chicken. That's why you butchered it yourself."

Angel took a forkful into his mouth. He wondered in the back of his mind how Fred had done it, suffused the dessert with living blood, still full of the subtle tastes of longing, and nostalgia, and generosity. And then it hit him: this could not be the blood of a fowl. This was human.

Swiftly, wordlessly, he stood and pulled Fred into the hallway, ignoring the confused questions of the other dinner guests. "Fred, where did you get..."

He stopped, sniffing the air. He bent over the girl's slender form, sniffing her torso and arms.

"Angel, what..?"

He took hold of the end of her long sleeve and shoved it up above her elbow, revealing a clumsily-bandaged cut. "Why did you do this?" he demanded angrily. "You could have hurt yourself."

"But I didn't," she said.

Still holding her arm, he gave her a shake. "Why did you do this?" he asked again.

"I wanted to," she said. "You've done so much for me, and I wanted to give you something back. Something special."

Angel dropped her arm, staring at her in shock. "Fred..."

"I've done it before," she said quietly.

Angel closed his eyes, remembering. "In Pylea. That was your own blood."

"It seemed like the only option at the time," she said. "And it worked, so..."

Angel took Fred's face in his hands. "I appreciate it, Fred, I really do," he said. "But please don't hurt yourself for me anymore."

"It didn't hurt."

"Promise me, Fred. You know what I mean."

She nodded. "I promise."

"Good," Angel said. He glanced back towards the dining room. "About the others," he said. "How did you..?"

"Oh. That," Fred said. "That's a funny story, actually..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Fred’s Honey Roasted Chicken with Fruit Stuffing**

_“Honestly, Angel, it’s just a chicken. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal. Alright, alright, I’ll take it outside.” – Fred_  
• 1 Tbs. olive oil  
• 2 cloves garlic; minced  
• ½ tsp. paprika  
• ½ tsp. salt  
• ¼ tsp. pepper  
• 1 grated zest of 1 orange  
• 1 grated zest of 1 lemon  
• 1 broiler-fryer; 4 1/2 to 5-lb. (*you* can get one at the supermarket)  
• 4 oz dried prunes  
• 4 oz dried apricots  
• 1 c fruity white wine  
• 1 tart apple; peeled, thinly-sliced  
• 1 tsp. finely chopped rosemary  
• ¼ cup honey  
Combine oil, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper,, orange and lemon zest. Rub  
over chicken, inside and out. Cover and refrigerate overnight, turning once  
or twice.

Soak prunes and apricots in wine until plump. Drain, reserving wine. Mix  
dried fruit with apples and rosemary. Stuff chicken with fruit mixture and  
truss. Brush skin all over with honey.

Place chicken breast up in roasting pan just large enough to hold bird.  
Roast at 425 degrees for l5 minutes. Turn over, brush with honey, and roast  
l5 minutes longer. Remove from pan and pour off drippings. Place any  
leftover fruit and reserved wine in pan; top with chicken, breast up.

Reduce heat to 350 degrees and roast for 1 1/4 hours, or until brown and  
crisp, basting occasionally. Cover with foil if browning too fast. Remove  
chicken to a platter; let stand l0 minutes. Slice and serve with fruit and  
gravy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Gunn’s Grandmother’s Corn Bread Stuffing**  
• 1 (16 oz.) pkg. Dry corn bread mix  
• 2 Tbsp. Butter  
• ½ cup chopped celery  
• 1 small onion  
• 2 eggs, beaten  
• 2 cups chicken stock  
• 2 Tbsp. Dried sage  
• salt and pepper to taste  
1- Prepare the dry corn bread mix according to package directions. Cool and crumble.  
2- Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease one 9x13 inch baking dish.  
3- In a large skillet over medium heat, melt the butter and saute the celery and onion until soft.  
4- In a large bowl, combine the celery, onions, 3 cups crumbled corn bread, eggs, chicken stock, sage and salt and pepper to taste; mix well.  
5- Place into prepared dish and bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 30 minutes.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
 **Gunn’s Grandmother’s Greens**  
• 6 ounces salt pork  
• 8 cups water  
• salt to taste  
• 2 bunches collard greens  
• ½ cup cider vinegar  
• 4 teaspoons white sugar  
1- Place the pork, water and salt in a medium size pot. Bring to a boil over medium high heat. Skim off any fat that rises to the top. Reduce temperature to low and let simmer for 30 minutes.  
2- Meanwhile, prepare greens. Discard damaged or yellow parts of leaves. Cut away the tough ends from each leaf. Place greens in a colander, and wash thoroughly until rinse water is clear of dirt. Fold each leaf in half at its center vein, fold over once or twice more, then cut in half.  
3- Stir prepared greens into the simmering liquid. Let simmer all together for approximately 1 hour over low heat. Ladle into shallow bowls, and add sugar and cider vinegar to each bowl. Serve.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Cordelia’s Italian Alps Risotto**  
• 4 tbsp. unsalted butter  
• 2 tbsp. olive oil  
• 2 oz. dried porcini mushrooms  
• 3 portabella mushrooms, sliced  
• 1/4 cup mascarpone cheese  
• 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese  
• 1 tbsp. chopped parsley  
• 5 to 6 cups chicken stock, simmering on stove  
• 1/2 cup dry white wine  
• 1/2 cup chopped shallots  
• 1-1/2 cups Arborio rice  
Heat 2 tbsp. butter and 1 tbsp. olive oil in skillet over moderate heat; add sliced portabellas and cook for approximately 10 minutes, until they are soft. Salt and pepper to taste. Chop portabellas and the rehydrated porcinis into fine pieces. Set aside. 

Heat remaining butter and oil in large skillet over moderate heat. Add shallots and sauté for 1 to 2 minutes or until they begin to soften. Add rice to the shallots and stir for 1 minute, making sure all rice gets coated. Add wine and stir until it is completely absorbed. 

Begin adding stock 1/2 cup at a time, but stirring frequently; wait until each addition is almost completely absorbed before adding the next 1/2 cup. Reserve 1/4 cup to add at the end. Stir frequently to prevent sticking. After approximately 20 minutes, when the rice is tender but firm, add reserved stock and chopped mushrooms, mascarpone, Parmesan and parsley. Stir until the cheeses are melted and combined with the rice. Serve immediately.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. Got No Sleigh with Reindeer, No Pack on my Back: Lindsey

**12:35 a.m., December 25th, 2001**

It was 35 past midnight, technically already Christmas Day, and the Fantasy Ten Strip Club and Top Hat Lounge was dead. Deader than dead. The deadest bar in all of Deadonia. And despite the management’s usual commitment to have at least ten girls in the house at any one time (hence the name), Mickey the bartender had sent eight of them home.

The other two, “Treasure” and “Joy,” sat at the bar, dazedly staring at TCM’s 40th airing of “A Christmas Carol.” Lindsey MacDonald, who’d been DJing there since just before Thanksgiving, removed the hip-hop music he usually played and put on the only semi-quiet album in the club’s collection, ‘Smooth Moves, vol. 6.’ The mellow tones of a jazz saxophone filled the bar.

Lindsey climbed onto a barstool next to the two girls, and Mickey drew him a short beer. “If I don’t see any customers by 1,” the bartender said, “I’m locking up.”

“I can’t believe Alan wanted us open tonight,” Treasure complained, leaning forward to rest her well-supplemented breasts on her forearms.

“Believe it or not, we did okay last Christmas Eve,” Joy said.

“Different times,” Mickey said.

“Yeah,” the girls agreed in unison.

There was a moment of silence, then Joy said brightly, “hey, you guys want to see a trick?”

“Why not?” Treasure said, and Mickey and Lindsey nodded. The stripper reached across the bar and plucked a maraschino cherry from its bin, then placed it in her mouth. She pursed her lips and a few seconds later removed the stem, now tied in a tight knot.

“Whaddya think?” she said.

“Not bad,” Mickey said. “Old bartender’s trick.” He took three pint glasses off the shelf. “Check this out,” he said, and began juggling them, a slow, easy pattern at first, then a few tricky over-the-shoulder moves. “Beat that, Tom Cruise,” he said.

But Treasure was waving her hand dismissively. “Enough with amateur night,” she said. “Give me a martini.”

“Girls can’t drink on the job,” Mickey said automatically. 

Treasure rolled her eyes. “Then give me soda water in a martini glass,” she said. “Honestly, Mickey, it’s not like I’m actually working.”

The bartender set the stemmed cocktail glass on the bar. Smiling slyly, Treasure slipped her right foot out of its high-heeled shoe and, without using her hands at all, lifted it up to the bar, picked up the martini glass with her toes, raised it delicately to her lips, and took a sip.

Mickey and Joy blinked in surprise then burst into applause. Lindsey clapped, too, laughing all the while. 

“Thank you,” Treasure said, replacing her shoe. “I’ll be here until Thursday. Try the veal.”

“So, Lindsey,” Joy said, “you know any good bar tricks?”

Lindsey looked embarrassed for a second, then a wicked gleam came into his eye. “Not exactly a bar trick,” he said, “but it might be worth a shot to go with this beer.”

“Hit me,” Mickey said with a shrug.

Lindsey propped his foot on the edge of Treasure’s bar stool and undid the laces on his shoe.

“I’ve seen this one,” Mickey said. “Let me get you a martini glass.”

Lindsey smirked. “Watch,” he said, and using only one hand he re-tied the shoelace into a perfect bow.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by more applause. “That was definitely worth a shot,” Mickey said, dropping some J.D. into a glass.

“How’d you ever learn to do that?” Joy asked. 

“I had to get by one-handed for awhile,” Lindsey said. “Learned a couple of things.”

“Well,” Mickey said, glancing at the clock, “it doesn’t look like anyone else is showing. I’m closing up.”

“Thanks, Mickey,” the girls said, heading for their dressing room to get changed.

“See you Wednesday,” Lindsey said, moving to the sound booth and shutting it down.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lindsey crossed the gravel lot to find Treasure leaning against his truck. “Something wrong,” he asked.

“No, I, uh… was just wondering if you had any plans for tomorrow,” she said.

“No, not really,” Lindsey said.

“I thought you might like to come to my place,” Treasure said. “Desiree’s coming with her little boy.” The girl lowered her eyes. “Look. This isn’t a come-on or anything. I mean, we all know you’re gay.”

Lindsey gave a start, but didn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” Treasure went on, “I just don’t think anyone should be alone on Christmas.”

“I’d love to come,” Lindsey said.

Treasure looked up and smiled. “I…”

“When should I be there?”

“How’s two o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then,” Lindsey said.

“See you then,” Treasure said, and she went to her own car.

Lindsey climbed into his truck and cranked the key. The radio started playing Elvis’s “Santa Claus is Back in Town.” He sang all the way home.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Fantasy Ten’s Louisiana Salsa**

_“I don’t know why anybody even buys that stuff in jars. This is *so* easy.” – Treasure_

• 3 medium tomatoes   
• 6 fresh jalapenos   
• ½ cup fresh cilantro   
• 1 medium red onion   
• 1 tsp salt, or to taste   
• juice from ½ lime  
Chop tomatoes, peppers cilantro and onion into small pieces. Then combine all ingredients in a covered bowl and shake thoroughly. Refrigerate for four hours or more. Serve with tortilla chips.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**The Top Hat Lounge’s Famous Billie Holiday Cocktail**

_“Love her.” – Mickey the Bartender_

• 2 ½ oz. Orange Vodka  
• 1 ½ oz. Blue Curacao  
• ½ oz. Pineapple juice  
• ½ oz. Cranberry juice  
• ½ oz. Lime juice  
Shake in an ice-filled cocktail shaker, strain into a chilled martini glass, garnish with a twist of lemon.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. In Days Beyond Recall: Oz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for "In Days Beyond Recall": This follows an imagined life for Oz that I was writing at the time and will import here... soon - "Boy on a String" - where he is working in a traveling circus in Europe. Since that story, he and Bema, a Greek acrobat, have been dating. Some of you may recognize one of the other characters.

**11:15 a.m., December 23rd, 2001**

"I was born here in Venice," Bema announced as she and four of her fellow circus performers stared down into the murky canal.

"Are you serious?" Eligio Bellini said.

"She was," Bema's brother Niklos confirmed. "In Santa Theresa hospital. We were wintering here that year, too."

"It's ridiculous," Eligio said dismissively. "No one is *born* in Venice. It would be like being born in... in Disneyland."

"Kids get born in Disneyland," Oz said. "A couple a year. I grew up in California and used to see it on the news."

"I was born in Soliel, in Tuscany," Eligio said. "My father was performing at the time."

"I was born in some town in Wales that no one can pronounce," Niklos said, sounding none-too-happy about it.

The four turned to the fifth member of their party, Nox the juggler, who was balancing a wooden club on his chin.

"What about you?" Eligio said. "Where were you born?"

Nox caught the club as it fell. "I don't remember," he said. "I was very young at the time."

"Ha, ha," Eligio said mirthlessly. "No, really."

Nox shrugged. "Really. I don't know."

"Were your parents circus people?" Bema asked.

Nox had all three clubs out now and was throwing them from hand to hand in the familiar pattern. "Maybe," he said. "I don't remember."

Eligio made a sigh of frustration and waved his hand, dismissing the juggler, but Oz felt a pang of sympathy.

"Come on," Bema said. "We need to draw a crowd and hand out flyers. It's nearly lunchtime and we're nowhere near the terrazzo."

Niklos jumped down from the railing and Nox shoved his clubs back into his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Together, the five took off at a brisk walk.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The terrazzo, as Bema had guessed, was filled with holiday shoppers. Nox pointed to a fountain of stone dolphins that was more or less centrally located. "How about there?" he said.

The five took their places, and Oz flipped his guitar around into his lap. Bema put down her shoulder bag and extracted a thick wad of colorful leaflets.

"Circus Internationale," they said, followed by, "Special Christmas Eve Performance by request of His Grace, Cardinal Vincente Santangelo, in the Plaza de Annunciata across from the Church of the Holy Family. Performance begins at 10 pm, followed by Midnight Mass at the Church. Come One! Come All!" in both English and Italian.

Oz began to play a series of energetic folk tunes while Nox juggled his clubs and Bema and Niklos tumbled over each other's shoulders. Eligio, whose family was one of the oldest trapeze acts in Europe, handed a leaflet to everyone who slowed down.

Nox climbed onto the edge of the fountain, and balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, put the clubs away and pulled his juggling knives from where he kept them, shoved in the cuff his knee-high boots. He began to juggle them, the sunlight lashing off the polished blades.

A crowd began to gather to watch the spectacle and Nox, encouraged by the reaction, bounded up to the next tier of the fountain. "Niklos," he shouted, "get me my torches."

Niklos pulled the torches from the side pocket of the juggler's bag and wet them down with lighter fluid. He set them alight and tossed them, one at a time, to Nox.

Nox caught them deftly and, juggling them, climbed even higher on the fountain. A substantial crowd had gathered now, and Niklos and Bema had joined Eligio in passing out fliers as quickly as they could.

Waving for his audience's attention, Nox took the burning torches in his teeth, holding them for several seconds while tourists' cameras snapped.

At the edge of the terrazzo, Oz saw two policemen enter from a side street.

"Nox!" he said. "Time for your big finish!"

The blond juggler saw the policemen at the same moment they saw him. "Last one," he said, pulling a flask from his inside pocket. He took a mouthful of the lamp fuel and blew a plume of orange fire into the air.

A police whistle cut across the terrazzo and Nox vaulted from the top of the fountain. "Tomorrow night, the Plaza de Annunciata," Eligio shouted, as a handful of fliers soared into the air and the five friends ran like rabbits.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They ran through narrow, twisting alleyways, crossing over and doubling back frequently. At last they came to a small, enclosed courtyard, little more than the widening of an alley, but with benches and flowerboxes, and a trickling fountain on one wall.

"I think we lost them," Bema said.

Eligio and Niklos dropped onto one of the benches.

"Good," Eligio said. "We can rest here a bit before returning to the caravan."

Nox dipped a handful of water out of the fountain and splashed it over his face, drying off with his shirt-tail. "Think this city has enough fountains?" he asked conversationally.

Bema lowered herself onto another bench and beckoned Oz to sit beside her. "Is your guitar all right?" she asked.

Oz plucked at the strings experimentally and did a bit of re-tuning. "Seems to be okay," he said.

He began to strum quietly, slipping almost unconsciously into the opening chords of 'O Holy Night.' Beside him, Bema began to sing in her clear alto, and, knowing the soaring high notes were beyond her, Oz modified the tune to accommodate her voice.

When they finished they heard clapping, and looked up to see a woman on the balcony above them. "Bella, bella," she called down. "Bravi."

Bema and Oz bowed forward, and the woman called something else that Oz didn't understand.

"She wants to know if you can play _Dormi, Dormi, o Bel Babin_ ," Eligio translated.

Tentatively, Oz began to pick out the notes as Eligio sang, “Dormi, dormi, dormi, o bel babin. Re divin, Re divin.." Bema and Niklos picked up the counterpoint, and Nox and Oz both joined in on the chorus.

“Fa la la la, Fa la la la la, Fa la la la.”

The woman on the balcony clapped heartily, calling down encouragement, then she asked the group to wait. A few seconds later she came out with a bundle tied in a napkin. "Biscotti," she informed them.

Eligio was up the wall and onto the balcony in a shot, much to the woman's amazed delight. He accepted the cookies with a courtly bow, and presented the woman with one of their fliers, which she read with a laugh of understanding.

The walk back to the countryside where their caravan was encamped seemed to take no time as they shared the sweets, and the tastes of almond and nutmeg.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oz ate that night, as he usually did, with Bema's family, the Papadoukas. Their extended family filled three large Winnebagos and if the weather permitted they all ate at a long table made of boards propped on sawhorses.

He had also begun to learn the act, tumbling and working with a see-saw to launch some of them onto others' shoulders. Bema's father, Kakistos, thought Oz had just the physique for it, small but strong, though so far Oz was a better "catcher" than a "flier." He was far from ready to perform, however, and stuck to his job in the sideshow.

Niklos passed him a plateful of sausages and Oz helped himself, followed by broccoli and baked pears. The day's events had left him ravenous.

Afterward, he and Bema took a walk in the dark lane around the encampment. "Another Christmas with us," Bema said. "How homesick you must be."

"No," Oz said. "Not homesick."

"Then what?"

"I was thinking, you all have families. I don't."

"It isn't important," Bema said. "We're all family here."

Oz stopped and pulled Bema into his arms. He nuzzled her hair lightly and whispered, "I'm a werewolf. Don't forget that."

She gave him a shove. "So? What are you saying? You need to find a werewolf girl? Have puppy-children?"

"No," Oz said, "but it makes me different."

"We all are different," Bema said. "It just isn't so obvious with some of us."

Oz sighed. "Maybe," he said, and Bema hugged him tightly.

"I love you," she said. "All of you. The man, the wolf, the musician, the traveler, the California born-on-a-hellmouth boy, everything. And that makes you belong here."

Oz touched the girl's cheek, and kissed her gently, but he did not give her a reply.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next afternoon, Lewis Carling III called the entire circus together. The plan was for all of them to parade through Venice to the Plaza de Annunciata, and Carling, the circus's general manager, was clearly nervous.

"We should have a very good crowd tonight," he announced, "but be sure to keep your acts short, as we discussed. We must be done in time for Mass. Incidentally, I expect all of you to attend and be respectful. His Grace has been very generous for this command performance, and you will all be receiving bonuses, so please be professional." He turned to Anthony Morgan, the circus's ringmaster. "Are you ready, sir? Then let's go."

The various acts quickly formed ranks, Rinaldo and his three elephants leading the way, followed by tumblers, contortionists, jugglers and wire-walkers. The orchestra was carried on a rolling platform drawn by a team of draft horses, and brightly-decorated animal cages mounted on carts carried the exotic animals: tigers, leopards, monkeys, and hippo.

With a kiss from Bema, Oz took his place in one of the smaller cages, securing his clothes in a metal locker before willing himself to transform into his vicious alter-ego.

Behind the animals came the rest of the performers, including the gypsy bareback riders and the clown corps.

By the time they entered the city proper, they had already drawn a crowd, and as darkness came on, torches were brought out to illuminate the procession. The orchestra departed from its usual repertoire to instead play hymns and other music of the season.

At last, they reached the Plaza de Annunciata. Cardinal Santangelo was there to meet them, surrounded by his priests and altar boys. Anthony Morgan went to meet him, and the two embraced like old friends. The Cardinal then withdrew to take his seat, and Morgan addressed the crowd with the traditional introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, and children of all ages! May I present Circus Internationale!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oz came to himself to find his cage draped with canvas to conceal his transformation back to human. Bema stood on the platform alongside the cage, just out of the wolf's reach. Oz could hear her singing softly to the hymn the orchestra was performing, "Adeste Fideles."

"What'd I miss," Oz said.

"Not much," Bema said, "The clowns are on now."

Oz dressed quickly and he and Bema joined the rest of her family where they watched from the edge of the crowd. The jugglers had taken the ring, now, Nox among them. Their friend always threw himself entirely into his performance, almost needy for the crowd's affirmation.

As Carling had directed, all the performers had cut their acts down to the bone, and the jugglers gave way to the trained dogs all too quickly. Nox joined Oz, Bema, and Niklos, his face flushed and his hair dripping with sweat.

The Bellinis, as always, went last before the finale. Eligio and his family soared above the crowd, as gracefully as cranes.

The show came to a close amid roars of approval, and the Cardinal invited everyone inside the church.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The sanctuary was lit with hundreds of candles as the five young people slid into a pew, and leaned towards Eligio, who was translating the Mass for them.

Oz was only half-paying attention until the Cardinal began his sermon.

"I want to thank the Circus Internationale," His Grace began, "for coming here tonight. I know many of you thought it was strange to invite these performers to join us, but I had a reason. Christmas has always been a time for singing and dancing, for pantomimes and games. There is an old folktale told for why it has always been so.

"You see, in the time when Christ was born, things were very dark. Herod, who was the governor of that land, had heard the prophesies that a child would be born, a child who would be king. He decreed that all male children under the age of two would be put to death. Naturally, families with infant sons tried to flee, to go someplace where they would be safe, and Joseph, warned in a dream by the Holy Spirit, took his wife and their child and started towards Egypt.

"Herod sent another decree, declaring that any who aided these families who sought to avoid the law would themselves be put to death. Can you imagine how frightened Joseph and Mary must have been? Running from soldiers, hiding where they could, right in the open because no one would give them shelter.

"At last, the Holy Family met with a troupe of traveling performers. When they told the story of how their newborn son's life was in danger, these performers took the family as their own, protecting them from Herod's soldiers. Together they escorted our Savior to Egypt, and to safety."

Beside him, Oz heard Nox draw a sharp intake of breath.

"Are you all right?" Oz whispered.

"I'm not sure," Nox said. "I... I remember that."

Oz turned to stare at his friend. "You what?"

"I remember them," Nox said even more quietly. "I never made the connection before..."

"That's..." Oz stopped himself before he said 'impossible' because he knew better.

Eligio batted Oz on the shoulder, gesturing towards the pulpit as he continued to translate.

"I invited these performers here as a reminder of that time, as a reminder to all of us that being one of the faithful may not always be easy, may not always be safe. God may call on us to put ourselves outside of society, outside of the law. Will you take the easy path, the safe path, or will you go where He leads you?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The procession back to the encampment was more subdued, but no less joyful. Only Oz and Bema and Nox, trailing far in the back, were somber.

After many minutes walking in silence, Oz spoke. "How old are you, Nox?"

The juggler caught the glass globe he was rolling from the back of his hand to the front, then back again over the tips of his fingers. "I don't really know," he said. "I think I'm very old."

"What you said in the church..." Oz prompted.

"Yes. I remember them," Nox said. "They told us their story, how they came to be so far from home. We were all afraid the guards would discover them, and us. There was a lot of fear, then. I didn't hear the biblical version until much later, and I never matched it with the Joseph and Mary I'd met." His face grew thoughtful as his mind cast back. "She was kind to me," he said. "And brave."

"How can that be?" Bema said. "You'd have to be over two thousand years old."

Nox shrugged and began rolling the glass ball back and forth again. "I suppose," he said. "I forget a lot. It's so long."

"I have a friend who's a vampire," Oz said. "He's over two hundred. Some things you can't explain."

Nox gave him a sidelong glance and grinned. "Like werewolves? Just as an example, of course."

Bema threw an arm around Oz's waist and gave him a quick hug. "Like a lot of things," she said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Eligio caught up with them back at the encampment. "There you are," he said. "Niklos and I were looking for you. I've some wine and food in my caravan. I want to share them all with you."

The five of them entered Eligio's home. It was an old wooden wagon, painted with his family's name along the side. Eligio's father, Silvio, had presented it to him for his twenty-fourth birthday the previous summer, with the implication it was time he married and started a family. Oz hoped Silvio wasn't holding his breath.

Eligio lit the carnival glass lanterns in the wagon and unfolded his table for them all. Bema, Oz, and Nox sat on the bed, Niklos and Eligio took chairs, and glasses of Madiera wine were passed. Eligio brought out cheese from France, pickled herring from Norway, chocolates from Switzerland, and caviar from Russia. Delicacies collected from all over Europe found their way to the table, and Oz realized the trapeze artist must have been gathering for this feast all year.

"Before we begin," Eligio said, raising his glass, "a toast. To strangers who become friends, and to friends who become family."

"Here, here," Niklos said, and all drank to the sentiment.

Oz turned Bema's head to face him. "I love you," he said. "I belong where you are."

"It's about time you realized that," she said, giving Oz a tender kiss. "Merry Christmas, my darling one."

Eligio laughed. "What a group we are," he said. He raised his glass again. "Here's to the end of a good year, with greatest hopes for the next one."

"Agreed," Oz said, and all drank again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The sun was fully risen by the time the party broke up. Niklos opted to stay in Eligio's caravan, while Oz and Nox walked Bema back to the Papadoukas encampment, then Oz dropped the juggler at his own quarters, actually a windowless 8'x8' compartment in a truck trailer some of the performers called the 'rabbit hutch.' Twelve men, mostly roustabouts, shared it together.

"How do you cook?" Oz asked, looking at what was little more than a box with a bed and two storage lockers.

"I pick up meals here and there," Nox told him, stashing his juggling equipment in one of the lockers.

Oz shook his head slowly. "Why don't you join Bema and me for dinner tonight," he said.

"I... I'd like that."

"See you then," Oz said, turning to go.

"See you," Nox said. "And thanks." Then he rolled down the compartment door.

Oz came to his van, now bathed in the pale winter dawn, and looked at the mural on the side. The red-haired girl there held out a beckoning hand, as always.

"I still miss you," Oz said. "But I can't be with you, I know that, and you know it, too." He sighed softly. Words never came easily to him, and addressing them to a memory wasn't helping.

"She's good for me," he said at last, and then he climbed inside, into his  
bed, and let sleep overtake him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 **The Lady on the Balcony’s Biscotti**   
• 1/3 cup butter  
• ¾ cup white sugar  
• 2 eggs  
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract  
• ¼ teaspoon almond extract  
• 2 teaspoons orange zest  
• 2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour  
• 1 ½ teaspoons baking powder  
• 1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg  
• ¼ teaspoon salt  
• 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips  
• ½ cup toasted almond pieces  
1- Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). Grease and flour a large baking sheet.  
2- In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, vanilla, almond extract, and zest. Combine flour, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt. Stir into the creamed mixture until just blended. Mix in almonds. Divide dough into two pieces. Form into long flat loaves about 1/2 inch tall and 12 inches long. Place the loaves 2 inches apart on the prepared baking sheet.  
3- Bake in preheated oven for 25 minutes, or until a light golden brown. Cool on a wire rack for 5 minutes.  
4- With a serrated knife, cut diagonally into slices about 1/2 inch thick. Lay the slices flat on the baking sheet. Bake for 10 minutes, turning over once. Transfer to a wire rack to cool.  
5- Place chocolate chips into a small, microwave-safe bowl. Melt chocolate in the microwave, stirring every 20 to 30 seconds until smooth. Use a spatula to spread chocolate onto one side of each cookie. Let stand at room temperature until set. Store biscotti at room temperature in an airtight container.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Bema and Niklos's Baked Winter Pears**

_"Huh." -Oz"_

6 fresh bartlett pears  
1/2 cup packed brown sugar  
1/3 cup toasted, chopped walnuts  
2 tablespoons butter  
2 cups orange juice  
1 tablespoon lemon zest  
1 tablespoon orange zest

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Core pears and remove skin halfway down. Combine brown sugar, walnuts and butter. Fill center of each pear with mixture. Place pears in a square baking pan. Pour juice over pears and sprinkle with lemon and orange zest. Bake 1 hour. Baste occassionally.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
DORMI, DORMI, O BEL BAMBIN  
Traditional Italian   
Dormi, dormi, dormi, o bel babin  
Re divin, Re divin.  
Fa la nanna, o fantolino,  
Re divin, Re divin.  
Fa la nana, o fantolino.

Refrain:  
Fa la la la, Fa la la la la, Fa la la la,  
Fa la , Fa la, Fa la, Fa la.

Perche piangi, o mio tresor?  
Dolce amor, dolce amor!  
Fa la nanna, o caro figlio,  
Tanto bel, tanto bel,  
Fa la nanna, o caro figlio.

Refrain  
English Translation: SLEEP, O SLEEP, MY LOVELY CHILD   
Sleep, o sleep, my lovely Child,  
King divine, King divine.  
Close your eyes and sweetly slumber,  
King divine, King divine.

Refrain:  
Fa la la la, Fa la la la la, Fa la la la,  
Fa la, Fa la, Fa la, Fa la.

O my sweet treasure, do not weep!  
Sweetly sleep, sweetly sleep,  
Close your eyes my Son, my dear one.  
Sweetly sleep, sweetly sleep,  
Close your eyes, my Son, my dear one.

Refrain

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%


	5. Walking in the Air: Wesley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on “Walking in the Air”: The title is from a song in the Raymond Briggs short animated film, “The Snowman,” an absolute Christmas classic. It’s the story of a boy who makes a snowman that comes to life and the wonderful things they do together. Told entirely without dialogue, it’s utterly charming.

**4:51 p.m., December 25th, 2001**

The employees of Angel Investigations sat quietly, giving Cordelia’s recent question serious contemplation, or maybe they were just lost in the reminiscences it provoked. Either way, Cordy was impatient for an answer.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” she volunteered. “My best Christmas was when I was sixteen. We went to Austria, and stayed in this beautiful chalet up in the alps. It was just like being in ‘The Sound of Music.’”

“If Maria wore a halter-top and push-up bra,” Wesley muttered, and Cordelia smacked him lightly on the arm. 

“What about you, Fred?” she asked. “What was your best Christmas?”

Fred ducked her head shyly, and gave a small smile. “This one,” she said softly.

All at the table smiled fondly, and Wesley gave her an encouraging hug. 

“What about you, Wesley,” Gunn asked.

“Oh. that’s easy,” Wesley said. “The year my parents were called away to Africa over the holidays. I was twelve.”

There was a general exclamation from the others at this revelation.

“Africa!” Gunn declared. “That’s the bomb, man!”

“My goodness,” Fred said. “How exciting.”

But Wesley shook his head and smiled sadly. “Oh, no,” he said. “I didn’t go along. They sent word to my school that I was to stay there.”

The rest looked at him in confusion. “Then why?” Cordy said, and Wesley settled back in his chair to begin.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The boy stared dumbly at his Headmaster. This had to be some kind of joke, he thought. Parents didn’t just leave their children at school. Even though Christmas had never been a grand affair at the Wyndham-Pryce home, Wesley had been looking forward to the break. Who would take care of him? he thought suddenly. Wouldn’t the teachers and staff go on holiday, too?

“This is most unusual,” the Headmaster said, “but not unprecedented. You will simply stay with one of the staff. I’ll make inquiries and see who can take you in.”

Wesley nodded and lowered his eyes, burning with humiliation. He could already imagine the looks of pity once word got around his parents weren’t taking him home. “Isn’t that poor Wesley,” they’d whisper. “So sad. It’s almost like being an orphan, isn’t it.” And with his luck, he’d be sent to Prof. Pickard, with his too-loud voice, or Miss Noel, who was half-blind.

“You may return to class now,” Mr. Lander told him, and Wesley numbly left the office.

The next morning there was a note in Wesley’s mail-slot asking him to return to the Headmaster’s office after class. He entered to find Mr. Galbraith, the school groundskeeper, talking to Dr. Lander.

“Ah, Wesley, please come in,” the Headmaster beckoned. “I presume you know Mr. Galbraith.”

Wesley nodded respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“He and Mrs. Galbraith have extended an invitation for you to spend the holidays at their home just down the road,” Dr. Lander went on, and Wesley nodded again.

“Of course, sir.”

“Very well, then,” The Headmaster said. “I’ll leave you to it.” And he left them in the office alone.

Wesley looked the groundskeeper over, trying not to stare. He knew him, all the students did, but the boy could not recall having ever spoken to the man. Mr. Galbraith looked pleasant enough, with black hair going to gray and a small, neat moustache. His face was gaunt, but there was a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“So, young Wesley,” he said, his voice quiet but strong. “How old are you now?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“A fine age,” Mr. Galbraith said. “I remember when my son was your age. Of course, he’s grown now, with two of his own little ones. You’ll meet him on Christmas Day, along with my daughter’s family.”

The mention of Christmas tilted Wesley into sadness again, and he bit his lip and nodded, not trusting his voice to hold steady.

Mr. Galbraith seemed to sense his discomfort and patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, then,” he said. “Meet me at the toolshed after the last classes before the holiday. And don’t forget your suitcase.”

Miserable beyond words, Wesley nodded again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The weather turned cold the last week of the term, and Wesley shivered as he trudged to Galbraith’s shed with his black traveling case clutched in one hand. He had resolved to be stoic while staying with the Galbraiths, and try to be as helpful and unobtrusive as he could. Dr. Lander had probably guilted them into taking him, Wesley reckoned, and he wanted to be as little trouble as possible.

Silently, he hoped none of his faults that so irritated his father would come out at inopportune times. He didn’t want the Galbraiths to think he was hopelessly clumsy and stupid.

Mr. Galbraith was waiting for him, and took his bag in one work-callused hand. “Mrs. Galbraith should be along shortly,” he told the boy, leading him to the end of the drive. Just at that moment a small horse-drawn cart turned into the lane. A round-faced woman, her cheeks stung by the wind, sat in the driver’s seat. A few locks of curly gray hair peeked out from under her kerchief. 

“Good heavens,” Mr. Galbraith murmured. “The madwoman has brought the gig.”

The horse pulled to a stop in front of them, and the driver looked down at them, smiling. “So,” she said, “this would be young Wesley, then.”

Wesley could only stare at her while Mr. Galbraith sputtered, “Coralee, what in heaven possessed you to drag this out?”

“Oh, Thomas,” she said, “I’ve been baking in that hot kitchen all day, and it’s so lovely and crisp out. Besides, Wesley can ride in a car any time.”

Mr. Galbraith rolled his eyes and shook his head, but it was a fond gesture. “Very well, woman,” he said. “Climb in, Wesley. It appears we’re traveling by contraption today.”

The boy could hardly contain his delight as he got into the gig and let Mr. Galbraith help him wrap up in the blankets. He felt a bit like Edmund in ‘The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,’ except the White Queen and her dwarf were a very nice older couple, and he wasn’t a sneaky liar at all.

Coralee Galbraith snapped the reins and the horse set off at a healthy trot. They sped past snow-crusted fields, and past stone cottages, some with thatched roofs. The area around the school seemed to take on a magical quality when seen from the gig, and the trip ended all too soon. 

The Galbraiths lived in a grand old farmhouse. When they arrived, Mrs. Galbraith helped Wesley down and took him inside, while her husband went to take care of the horse, muttering all the while. 

The house was filled with the smell of baking sweets, and Wesley was suddenly very hungry. Luckily, Mrs. Galbraith led him straight to the kitchen. “Let me just make some tea,” she said, filling the kettle with water.

Once it was set down to heat she took out a blue-and-white porcelain teapot and a tea tin. As she measured out spoonfuls into the pot, she said, “there’s something about brewed tea you simply cannot replicate with a bag. Don’t you agree, Wesley?”

Wesley, who could not recall ever having an opinion on the subject, vigorously concurred.

“Oh, please, sit down,” Mrs. Galbraith said, and Wesley did, watching her set the table with sugar and cream, honey and currant jelly, cups, saucers, spoons, and, best of all, a plate full of fruit-bread and fresh biscuits. Mr. Galbraith entered just as the kettle began to whistle.

As the kitchen filled with the sweet scent of brewing tea, Wesley followed his hosts’ lead and ate one biscuit with honey, then another spread with jelly, then had two slices of fruit-bread. They asked him about school, and his family, and he chatted freely. There was moment of awkwardness when Mrs. Galbraith asked him what he thought he might like to do as an adult and Wesley tried to think of a way around explaining he was bound to join a secret organization sworn to battle supernatural evil, but the moment passed quickly.

“I should show you the guest room, now,” Mr. Galbraith said as Wesley finished his tea. They all went upstairs to a room at the end of the hall. Wesley gave a small gasp of surprise when he saw the enormous four-poster featherbed that filled most of the room. It would be the largest bed he’d ever slept in.

Mrs. Galbraith took Wesley’s case from her husband and put it on top of the dresser. “I’ll just put these things away,” she said, and Wesley snapped out of his daze.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. 

“It’s no trouble,” she said, lifting the shirts and trousers into a drawer. Then her brow creased in confusion and she poked through the bag. “Wesley? Didn’t you bring any play-clothes?”

Wesley colored with embarrassment as he heard his father’s voice in his mind. “You’re eleven years old. You haven’t time for sports and games.”

“I don’t have any,” he said, and Mrs. Galbraith chuckled to herself.

“No, I should have realized. You came from school. You would have your play-clothes at home.”

Wesley did not correct her.

She excused herself and returned a few moments later with an armful of dungarees and plaid flannel shirt. “These belonged to my son, John, when he was your age.” She dropped them down on the bed and held one shirt up to his shoulders. “I think they should fit,” she said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next few days, leading up to Christmas Eve, were perhaps the most revelatory in Wesley’s young life. He had always assumed most parents were like his own, more or less, and to find himself now being cared for by people who let him eat all he liked, encouraged him to join in activities without once telling him he’d be in the way, and who actually expected him to indulge in pastimes, like games and playing with the dogs, and even watching Tom and Jerry on the telly with Mr. Galbraith, that his father would have called a waste, was something he had never even imagined could exist.

He helped Mr. Galbraith pick put a Christmas tree, cut it down, and carry it home, then he and Mrs. Galbraith trimmed it with lights and balls and little glass toys. He cut cookies, and chopped apples and dates for pie. Even though Mrs. Galbraith told him he didn’t have to, he pitched in on the sweeping and housecleaning. Each night he dropped into his warm, soft featherbed and slept a sleep full of happy dreams.

On Christmas Eve morning the Galbraiths’ two children, John and Elizabeth, arrived with their own families. They had four children between them, the oldest only five.

Soon after their arrival, Mrs. Galbraith took Wesley into the kitchen to help with the lunch. The boy’s heart began to sink as he realized he would probably be shunted off to the sidelines now that his hosts’ real grandchildren had arrived, but Mrs. Galbraith did not send him to his room at all.

Instead, she talked quietly as he buttered the bread. “All the children are excited about Father Christmas coming,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Wesley re-assured her. “I won’t let the cat out of the bag.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “But we might need your help tonight. I wanted you to be prepared to stay up late, alright?”

Wesley didn’t even try to conceal his sudden smile of joy at hearing this news. “Alright,” he agreed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The meal that night was simple, and afterwards Wesley accompanied the Galbraiths to Mass. The church was packed full, and lit with hundreds of candles. The little ones fell asleep almost before the first hymn, curled against their parents in the pews, and even Wesley found himself dozing as the priest re-counted the familiar story. 

Later, at home, the children begged to stay up and wait for Father Christmas, even though they were clearly half-asleep. Since they were all sharing the big featherbed with Wesley, he took the initiative in corralling them all upstairs and tucking them all in, confident that the Galbraiths would wake him if he fell asleep.

Sure enough, he was gently shaken awake around 11, and rubbing his eyes he followed Mrs. Galbraith to the living room. 

The room was bathed in the golden light of the Christmas tree and the jumping flames of the fireplace. John, Elizabeth, and their spouses were doing last-minute wrapping and piling the gifts under the tree. Mr. Galbraith, using a tack hammer, was attaching the stockings to the mantle-piece. Mrs. Galbraith handed Wesley a sack of tiny, wrapped presents.

“Could you put these in the children’s stockings,” she said. “Their names should be on them.”

Wesley went to the task happily, and soon everything was ready for the morning. Mr. Galbraith stirred the coals in the fireplace, sparking them back to life, and John poured tumblers of whiskey for the adults and a coca-cola for Wesley.

“It’s tradition for the adults to each open one gift on Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Galbraith told Wesley.

“Oh,” Wesley said. “I can go upstairs to bed, then.”

Mrs. Galbraith laughed gently. “No, I don’t mean that,” she said. “I expected you to join.” She reached behind one of the chairs and pulled out a parcel post wrapped in brown paper. “Your parents sent this to you.”

Wesley took the package and fell dazedly onto the couch. The box had his address at school written in his mother’s neat script; the lady from the mail room must have brought it by. There were dozens of stamps with pictures of orchids and palm trees. Wesley took hold of the string binding, but couldn’t quite bring himself to undo it.

“How extraordinary,” Elizabeth said from far outside Wesley’s mind. “All the way from Africa.”

But Mrs. Galbraith was handing packages to the rest. “Come on, now,” she said. “The children will be up early.”

As the others unwrapped gifts of clothes and books and, in Mr. Galbraith’s case, a briar pipe, Wesley finally found himself undoing the brown paper. Inside were a tribal-print shirt, carved wooden giraffes and elephants, and some small jade boxes. Wesley could only stare at them, silently wishing they hadn’t come to remind him he didn’t belong here, that this was not his Christmas. That he was as out-of-place as a giraffe at the manger.

He must have gotten lost in these thoughts, because the next thing he knew Mrs. Galbraith was taking the gifts out of his hands and putting them with the rest. “You must be very tired, Wesley,” she said, and she nudged his shoulder, getting him to his feet and up the stairs to bed. 

She put him under the covers, re-arranging the other children to make room. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and closed the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

To his surprise, Wesley found more gifts for him in the morning. Mysteriously, a stocking that hadn’t been there the night before was hung beside the rest, filled with fruits and sweets and a card with his name. And as the grandchildren opened the boxes with mittens and mufflers and caps knit for them by Mrs. Galbraith, a box with a set for him, all in red, found its way onto Wesley’s lap.

If anyone noticed the shine in his eyes, they pretended it was the light from the tree.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I wore the muffler and hat every winter until I moved to California,” Wesley told his friends. “I still treasure them.”

“Did you keep in touch with the Galbraiths?” Fred asked.

“Oh, yes,” Wesley said. “In fact, I asked my father if I could spend Christmas with them the next year.” He smiled sadly. “He didn’t let me. I think he was embarrassed I preferred the company of ‘servants’ to my own family. Anyway, we wrote letters and cards. Mr. Galbraith passed on when I was 17. Over 800 alumni attended his funeral. They filled the lane outside the church. Mrs. Galbraith died about a year later. I had just started at the Watchers’ Academy and couldn’t get there. Her daughter told me they found my letters to her saved in a drawer.”

“They were like foster grandparents,” Cordy said.

Wesley’s smile broadened a bit. “Yes,” he said. “That’s a good way to put it.” He raised his glass. “A toast, then,” he announced. “Here’s to those who take in emotional orphans.”

“Here, here,” Cordy said.

“Here, here,” Gunn and Fred agreed.

Angel glanced at the bassinet where his son lay sleeping. “Here, here,” he added quietly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 **Coralee Kennedy Galbraith’s Irish Christmas Cake**  
• ¾ cup margarine  
• ½ cup sugar  
• 3 large eggs  
• 2 cups flour  
• ¾ tsp. Baking powder  
• ½ cup Whiskey (Old Bushmills, Jameson’s, or similar)  
• 1 bottle or can Guinness Stout  
• ½ cup honey  
• 2 ½ cups raisins  
• ½ cup chopped pecans  
• ½ cup chopped walnuts  
• ½ cup chopped dried fruit (good ones are pears, apricots, pineapple, apples, but not bananas, definitely not coconut, and absolutely none of those sticky green cherries)  
• ½ tsp. nutmeg  
• 1 tsp. cinnamon  
• ½ tsp. ground cloves  
Set oven to 275 degrees. Cut a circle of waxed paper and put it in the bottom of a 7 ½ greased cake tin (Danish butter cookie tins work very well). Put the raisins and dried fruit in a bowl, and pour whiskey and stout over them.  
In a large bowl cream the butter and sugar together, and then add the eggs, one at a time, beating briskly. Blend flour and baking powder and sift over creamed butter and sugar. Mix well. Strain the fruit with a slotted spoon and stir it into the mixture.  
Add the nuts, spices, and honey and blend well.  
Pour the batter into the greased cake-tin, smooth the top with a spatula. Set the tin in the oven and bake for about two hours or until the cake is nicely browned on top.  
My grandmother used to stick a knitting needle into the cake to see if it was done, but you can use a knife or a metal skewer. If the needle comes out clean, then the cake is ready. Let it cool before taking it out of the tin. Pour some more whiskey over it, wrap it tightly in foil, and refrigerate until it’s ready to be served. At that time, pour a little more whiskey over it, if you desire, let it soak in, then slice and serve. (If you don’t drink, you can skip the added whiskey- it’s still delicious without.) A little whipped cream won’t hurt the taste any, and a glass of Irish coffee is the perfect accompaniment.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 **Thomas Galbraith’s Irish Coffee**  
• 1 Tbsp. sugar  
• 1 Tbsp. Lemon juice  
• ¼ cup Whiskey (a good Irish one)  
• 2 Tbsp. Coffee liqueur (Kahlua)  
• 1 ½ cups strong coffee (don’t skimp here and get cheap coffee. Get a good, freshly ground brand.)  
• ¼ cup whipped cream  
Sprinkle sugar onto a plate; pour lemon juice into a small, shallow dish. Dip rims of four 4-oz. flameproof goblets or narrow coffee cups into lemon juice and then into sugar so that sugar adheres to rims of goblets; set goblets aside.  
In a small saucepan combine whiskey and liqueur and cook over medium heat until mixture is heated through ( **do not boil** ). Pour ¼ of each mixture into each prepared goblet; add ¼ of the coffee to each portion and top with 1 Tbsp. Whipped cream.  
Serve immediately. Serves 4.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

Wesley’s Tips for Making a Perfect Pot of Tea

To make a good pot of tea, bring freshly-drawn water to a brisk boil. Pour a little boiling water into a 2 pt/ 1 ltr/ 4 cup earthenware teapot to warm it, then empty the water out. Using good quality tea, put 3-5 teaspoons, according to taste, into the warmed pot. Bring the water back to the boil and pour on immediately. Cover the pot with a tea-cosy and allow to brew for 5 minutes - any shorter and the flavour will not have developed, any longer and the tannin will start to come out, making the tea taste stewed. For the same reason, boiling water should be used to make the tea but the brew should not subsequently be boiled.


	6. Ponder Nothing Earthly Minded: Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve been reading all the stories up until now, you’ll get more in-jokes. Slight crossovers with “Little Saint Nick (part 1)” and “Hanging Up My Stockings.”

**3:24 a.m., December 24th, 2001**

It wouldn't last; Angel knew it wouldn't last. This calm, quiet time when nothing seemed to be massing for attack or casting spells or battering its way in the front door, it would end and probably at the most inopportune time.

Best take advantage of it now, especially with so much turmoil *inside* the Hyperion as preparations were made for Christmas.

Angel had been awakened a little while ago by the soft whimper of Connor, his most unlikely child, in the cradle in the corner of Angel's bedroom, had awakened more quickly and more completely than he ever had in his memory.

Angel had thought at first that caring for the baby wouldn't be unlike rearing a newly-raised vampire fledgling, and heaven knew Dru had woken him often enough in her fledgling days, but this was so much worse. Every sigh and yawn brought him to Connor's cradle-side, searching the tiny face for distress.

Now it was time for his late-night feeding, and Angel had picked him up to carry him to the kitchen for a bottle. Holding the infant with one arm while he put the bottle into the microwave to warm with the other hand, Angel could feel the tiny body shivering and the beginning of a cry on Connor's lips.

Why is this hotel so cold, Angel thought angrily. We're in Los Angeles, it's supposed to be warm.

The baby let out a pitiful cry, and Angel wrapped it tighter in the blanket. I wish *I* weren't so cold, he thought sadly.

Now the baby was back in its cradle, sobbing quietly while Angel rocked him gently. Poor wee thing, he thought. Vampires for parents. Cordelia was right, he'd never have any kind of normal life, not from the very beginning.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The baby was gone when Angel woke up the next morning, and dimly he recalled Fred coming in and taking him downstairs for his breakfast. I must really be exhausted, he thought, to not wake up. Parental selective hearing, he supposed.

He heard music coming up the stairs, and realized Lorne, their houseguest, was singing along to the Christmas radio station Cordelia had found on the internet and had been playing non-stop for the past two weeks. He also heard his other employees talking among themselves, punctuated by frequent cooing from the female members of his staff. His son must be doing something adorable again.

Angel rose, threw on some clothes, and headed for the lobby. Flashes of light were coming up the stairs; obviously Cordelia was recording the event. She had gone through who knows how many of those disposable cameras before finally giving in and picking up a 35 mm instamatic, and there was no stopping her now. She'd probably run to the 1 hr. photo shop on her lunch break and have them pinned to the bulletin board in the office by 1:30. Which was fine with Angel.

"He's just the cutest thing," Fred said. "When Angel sees these pictures he is gonna die. Uh, figuratively speaking, I mean."

Angel got to the top of the stairs and looked down into the lobby, expecting his heart to melt for the 500th time that week. Instead what he saw made his blood turn to ice.

A Christmas tree had been set up and decorated, as the gang had been planning for days, and a red velvet skirt was spread beneath the branches. And in a white basket, dressed in a little green suit, was Connor, smiling at his stuffed bear that Fred was holding behind Cordy's shoulder as she snapped away.

"Cordy," Angel shouted, and all turned to him.

"What are you doing," he demanded, as he hurried down the stairs. "Get him out of there!"

The smile on Cordelia's face broke into a mask of hurt, even as the baby started to cry, startled by his father's raised voice.

Fred gathered Connor into her arms, whispering little re-assurances.

"Give him to me," Angel said, taking the crying child from her.

Lorne stepped to the two ladies' defense. "They weren't doing anything," he said reproachfully. "You don't need to..."

"Not under the tree," Angel said, his voice low.

"Now you're just being irrational," Lorne said. "He's perfectly..."

"Lorne," Wesley said warningly. "This is Angel's..."

"But it was so Anne Geddes collection," Lorne persisted. "When you see those pictures, you're just gonna..."

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way," Angel sang at him, and Lorne stepped back, his mouth dropping open in shock.

"I'm sorry..." Lorne stammered. "I didn't..."

"No," Angel said coldly. "You didn't." And still carrying Connor he retreated to his upstairs study.

"What was that about?" Cordelia said uncertainly.

Lorne and Wesley exchanged looks. "You *really* don't want to know," Lorne said. "And I wouldn't bother getting those pictures developed if I were you."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angel held his son and rocked him until the child's frightened cries were stilled. "I'm sorry," Angel repeated quietly over and over. Connor stared at his father with clear eyes, and Angel saw some of Darla in his expression. It made him sad and happy in different ways.

A soft knock came at the door, and Cordelia entered. Angel lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It wasn't you, you didn't know..."

"No, I'm sorry it happened," Cordelia said. "Don't worry about it." She sat down on a chair opposite him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "Just... bad memories. Lorne told you, I guess."

"No," she said. "But I think I can guess. Not something I'm dwelling on, believe me." She reached out. "Can I hold him, please?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Angel said, handing him over.

"Hey, Connor," Cordy said softly. "You don't have to cry. You're a perfect, beautiful baby, and Daddy's just a big neurotic mess."

"Hey," Angel said.

"Shh," Cordelia scolded. "Don't shout around the baby."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Very early Christmas morning:

If they knew what he was doing, they would run into the night and vow never to sleep under his roof again, but Angel wasn't looking in to watch them all sleeping for a few minutes because of any weird vampire thing. It was just since the baby had come into his life, he had found a new reassurance in simple things like listening to his human friends' heartbeats and breathing.

Okay, maybe it was a weird vampire thing.

But he couldn't recall having them all here before when they weren't under some kind of siege, and it was nice to have them full and happy and sleeping peacefully and *know* it, because they were all together. It reminded him of the very best days with his vampire 'family,' and, more recently, the nights Buffy would stay with him after a tiring night of patrolling.

He’d found Fred still fretting over the next day’s meal, and had rather sternly sent her on her way to bed, feeling even more like a father watching over his eccentric family. When he got back to his bedroom, Connor had come awake, although he hadn't started crying, and was turning his head as far as he could to look around the room. Angel went to him and lifted him up, resting him on one shoulder so he could see, then opened the heavy curtains to reveal the lit street below. Glittery snowflakes were suspended from each streetlight, completely without irony, and holiday displays shown from the storefronts.

"Look," Angel said, pointing. "Look at all the pretty lights. Those are Christmas lights, just like the ones Cordelia put up downstairs. When I was a little boy like you, before I became a vampire, we didn't really celebrate Christmas. Not like you do now, anyway. We just went to church."

Softly Connor yawned, and Angel carried him back to his cradle. "Go to sleep, little one," he said. "Santa's on his way."

Now where did that come from? Angel thought as he secured the curtains and went back to bed himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angel woke up well before the rest of his staff, and smiling to himself headed for his kitchenette. He took out the fine dishes he'd discovered in the hotel stores and brought out the food he'd gotten the day before, including soda bread and scones from O'Hanlon's bakery.

Fred wasn't the only one with a talent for cookery.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm going out for a little while," Angel announced to the five humans and one demon spread out around his bedchamber, watching some movie Angel thought he should probably know, but didn't. "Are you all going to be okay?"

"Absolutely," Cordelia said.

"How long are you going to be gone?" Fred asked.

"Not long. Two or three hours."

"Just don't want you to be late for dinner," she said, smiling proudly.

"There are two bottles in the refrigerator," Angel told them, "but he shouldn't get his next one until 3. There are diapers and wet naps in the cabinet there, and clean clothes if he needs them. I'll have my cell phone on if you have any questions..."

"Would you go, already," Cordelia said teasingly. "We all know. We've been helping take care of him for weeks."

"Okay. Right. I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going, just out of curiosity," Wesley asked.

"Visiting a friend," Angel said, and Wesley nodded knowingly.

"What did he mean by that," Lorne asked when Angel was gone. "Everyone he knows in L.A. is in this room."

"This friend doesn't get out that much," Wesley said dryly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angel smiled as the dark-haired girl sat down on the other side of the glass and picked up the phone receiver. "Merry Christmas," he said.

"Where've you been?" Faith said. "You don't call. You don't write..."

"I do write!" Angel said defensively.

"I'm kidding," she said. "It's just an expression. But where have you been? I haven't seen you since... September, was it?"

"A lot's been happening," Angel told her.

"Yeah, you're a regular excitement magnet. What is it this time? Demons? Killer cult? More lawyers?"

"All of the above, plus a 200-year-old vampire hunter with a grudge. But that's not the big news."

"There's bigger news?" Faith was intrigued. "Anything you need my help with, because I'd be happy to let you break me out. In the cause of fighting evil, of course."

In reply, Angel reached inside his jacket, pulled out a photograph, and held it up to the glass. Faith leaned in to get a better look at it. "Whose baby is that?" she said. "New client?"

"He's mine," Angel said.

Faith blinked several times in surprise. "I'm sorry, did you say he was yours?"

"Yes. He's my son, Connor."

Faith raised a finger to trace the outline of the photo. "You adopted him? How can you..?"

"No, I'm his father," Angel explained. "And Darla is his mother."

"Darla... The *vampire* Darla?"

"Yes."

"How is that even... Oh, God, it's a vampire baby, isn't it?"

"No, no, no. He's human. I don't know how it's possible either. More ancient prophecies... you know."

"Yeah. Same old, same old." She tilted her head, still examining the picture, and smiled wonderingly. "How's mom doing? Adjusting to the rigors of parenthood?"

"She's dead. Died in childbirth, well, sort of."

"I'm sorry," Faith said. "Still, cute baby. Takes after his Dad."

Angel smiled proudly. "I brought more pictures," he said. "Cordy's been a little camera-happy."

"Not surprised," Faith said.

"But how have you been?" Angel asked. "Did you do anything for Christmas?"

"Helped Miriam with the services last night," Faith said. "Christmas is always our biggest one, but it went really well..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fred and Lorne had gone to bed, and Gunn, Wesley, and Cordelia had long since gone home, but Angel stayed up in his study, holding Connor on his lap. The child had fallen asleep, and just looked so sweet and peaceful, Angel couldn't bring himself to disturb him, especially since he would probably wake up soon for something to eat anyway. And it was so cozy in this room, with its overstuffed furniture and bookcases. If it only had a fireplace, it would be perfect.

As if on cue, Connor stretched his arms and legs and gave a squeaky yawn, then looked up at his father and smiled sleepily.

"Let's get you something, then," Angel said, lifting him up and carrying him into the next room to the kitchenette. The bottle was warmed quickly, and Angel carried it and the baby over to his bed. He was drawn up short by the presence of three brightly-wrapped Christmas gifts waiting for him. Again.

Just then, Connor began fussing for his dinner, so Angel could only sit there, feeding him, and staring at the packages. He presumed they were from the same person (or whatever) who had left him the sno-globe the year before, a mystery still unsolved as his entire staff denied having put it there, and Angel was filled with curiosity and annoyance over the whole business.

At last Conner finished, and Angel didn't even cross the room to the cradle, but simply set him down on the coverlet and reached for the largest box. Inside was a queen-sized electric blanket and a xeroxed article from _The Journal of Infant Development_ entitled "Touch-deprivation and Failure to Thrive Syndrome in Infants Under 6 Months." A number of passages relating the authors' conclusions that skin-to-skin contact was necessary for babies’ well-being were highlighted with neon pink.

Inside the second box was a set of baby pajamas in black terrycloth. A card pinned to them read "for his Father's Son" in small, neat script, and Angel smiled ruefully.

The third box was the smallest. Inside was what looked like a small, silver pocket watch, but when Angel opened it he found it had two tiny picture frames inside where the clock should be. He brought it closer to his eyes so he could see it in the dim light, and gasped in shock.

On one side was a miniature tin-type Angel didn't even remember having taken. It showed Darla seated on a velvet chair and himself standing behind; judging from the clothes and hairstyle it was taken in the mid-1800s. On the other side was a photo that could not have been, a color shot of Darla holding Connor up beside her face, her mouth pursed as if she were about to kiss his cheek, one hand holding Connor's up as though he were waving.

Angel snatched up the box and found a slip of lavender paper folded in the bottom. He opened it and found five words written in the same maddeningly familiar script:

"Whoso loves  
believes the impossible."

Angel looked over at his son, now sleeping, and removed the boxes and paper onto the floor. He tossed the pajamas onto a chair and laid the locket carefully on his bed-table. He lifted Connor gently, so as not to wake him, and laid him in the cradle. Then he spread the new blanket on the bed and plugged it in. He set the temperature gauge, changed into his sleep clothes, and climbed under, knowing that his skin would be warm when he picked Connor up again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Traditional Irish Breakfast**

thick slices bacon and/or sausages  
butter or margarine  
eggs  
tomatoes, sliced  
whole mushrooms  
soda bread and scones  
honey and preserves  
freshly made tea

Lay the bacon slices in a single layer in a large skillet. Fry over medium heat until it begins to get tinged with brown. Fry on both sides. Remove from pan, but save grease.

Melt butter in skillet. Crack eggs into pan, being careful not to break yolks. Place tomato slices, mushrooms, and bread in pan. Fry gently, stirring mushrooms and tomatoes occasionally. Spoon the hot fat over the eggs to set them. Keep everything separate. Turn bread over to brown on both sides.

When eggs are set, dish everything onto warmed plates, and serve immediately.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Homemade Breakfast Sausage**

2 teaspoons dried sage  
2 teaspoons salt  
1 teaspoon ground black pepper  
1/4 teaspoon dried marjoram  
1 tablespoon brown sugar  
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes  
1 pinch ground cloves  
2 pounds ground pork

In a small, bowl, combine the sage, salt, ground black pepper, marjoram, brown sugar, crushed red pepper and cloves. Mix well.

Place the pork in a large bowl and add the mixed spices to it. Mix well with your hands and form into patties.

Saute the patties in a large skillet over medium high heat for 5 minutes per side, or until internal pork temperature reaches 160 degrees F (70 degrees C).

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**O’Hanlon’s Irish Soda Bread**

6 cups all purpose flour  
2 teaspoons baking soda  
2 teaspoons baking powder  
3 tablespoons cornstarch  
2 teaspoons sugar  
1 teaspoon salt  
2 1/2 cups buttermilk

Preheat oven to 375

Add all the dry ingredients in a large bowl and mix very well Pour in all of the buttermilk into the bowl at once and stir. Stir only until the dough barely holds together. I mean barely! Do this quickly too!

Divide the dough into two portions. Shape each quickly into a round. Quickly!

Cut a cross 2/3 down into the top of each loaf so that you can see the cut. -The loaf should come apart about 1/2 inch. Paint the loaf over with buttermilk being sure to get the bottom of the cross cut wet with it. Give the surface of the loaf a bit of texture by cutting into it with a knife or fork if it is too round and smooth. Let loaves rest for about ten minutes . Put into the oven- The baking takes about 30-40 minutes.  
The loaf is done when the buttermilk in the bottom of the cross is dry to the touch. Do not handle or cut hot soda bread! Let it cool down on a rack if possible. Wrap in newspaper to keep lightly warm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Kuzibah’s Scones**

2-1/2 cups flour  
1/4 cup rolled oats  
1 tsp. baking soda  
1 tsp. cream of tartar  
2 tbsp. sugar  
1/2 tsp. salt  
1/4 cup cold butter or margarine  
1/2 cup raisins  
1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Mix dry ingredients together in large bowl. Cut in butter or margarine with a pastry blender until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add raisins and mix slightly. Pour in milk and mix until dry ingredients are moistened. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface; then pat into a 3/4" thickness. Using a 2" glass or biscuit cutter, dipped in flour, cut dough into circles. Place on an ungreased baking sheet and bake for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown. Serve hot with butter or jam. Store leftovers in an airtight container. Makes 12 scones.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. Little Saint Nick (part 2): Buffy and Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally write these stories as stand-alones, but this one is really two interlocking stories, so I’m presenting them separately. The first part is chapter one of this work.

Buffy held the hymnal in her hand, she stared down at the words, but she wasn't singing, wasn't even pretending to sing like she used to sometimes when she was little and couldn't read all the words. Dawn had insisted they come to the midnight service, and Buffy really couldn't think of a good reason to refuse. And the church was pretty, with all the candles and greenery and poinsettias, and the choir sounded nice.

"Buffy," Dawn said in her ear, and the older girl turned to her sister.

"You can sit down," Dawn said. "The song is over."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

One of Joyce's acquaintances caught up with them on the way out. "I'm so sorry about your mother," she said. "If you need anything, be sure to let me know." And Buffy and Dawn had nodded, knowing it was all a formality, and they didn't need anything, anyway.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk, and it seemed cool and dark there after the stuffy brightness of the church. Dawn had put their candles in her purse instead of dropping them in the basket at the back of the church, and she brought one out as they walked towards home. "I wonder how they used to put candles on Christmas trees," she said. "I'll bet it was pretty."

"It was," said a voice very close behind them and they both spun around.

"Spike!" Buffy said angrily.

"It's okay," Dawn said. "I asked him to meet us."

"I've got the car like you asked," Spike told her, taking the candle out of her hand. "And to answer your question, they had holders that clipped to the branches. And it was beautiful. 'Course, you Americans are too lazy to supervise them properly and cocked up the whole thing. Some moron burns his house down and every newspaper falls over themselves warning you to never, ever have candles on your tree." He handed the candle back to her. "You all missed out."

"As fascinating as your reminder that Americans are lazy and stupid is," Buffy said, "I presume you have some reason to be here."

"Yeah," Spike said, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder. "Car's this way."

"Wait," Dawn said. "It's a surprise. We need to blindfold you."

"In Spike's car?" Buffy said. "Not even if it were pulled by flying reindeer."

"At least close your eyes when I tell you," Dawn said. "Please? I want it to be a surprise."

Buffy crossed her arms, preparing to refuse, when she saw the serious earnestness in Dawn's face. "Alright," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're just lucky it's Christmas."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Can I open my eyes, yet?" Buffy called from where she leaned against Spike's Desoto.

"Not yet," Spike and Dawn answered in unison.

"What are you doing?"

"None of your business, Slayer," Spike replied.

"I'm opening my eyes, now," Buffy growled.

"No," Dawn squealed, followed by Spike saying, "we're in."

Buffy felt two pairs of hands, one small and warm on her arm, one larger and cool over her eyes. "Get your filthy hands off my face, Spike."

"Are you gonna keep your eyes closed?"

"Buffy, please," Dawn pleaded. "We're almost there."

Buffy sighed and allowed them to lead her through what felt like a parking lot and through a doorway, but where she expected an interior warmth, there was a chilly rush of air. "What the..."

"You can open your eyes, now," Dawn said, and Spike lifted his hands. It took Buffy a second to recognize it in the dark, the floor reflecting the light from the doorway.

The skating rink.

"I'll get the lights," Spike said, moving off into the darkness.

"Your skates are in the trunk," Dawn said, leaving Buffy staring at the ice as somewhere Spike found the switches and above her lights flicked experimentally off and on. At last they settled on a low, blue gleam, like moonlight. Then Dawn and Spike were beside her again.

"Here they are," Dawn said, putting the boots into Buffy's hand.

"Is it bright enough?" Spike asked. "I can turn it up..."

"It's perfect," Buffy said.

Spike took a portable boom box from Dawn's other hand and carried it to the bleachers. He switched it on and "Swan Lake" began playing softly. Buffy seemed to wake from her daze and move to the bleachers herself to change into her skates.

She stepped onto the mirror-smooth surface, the blades cutting two parallel lines as she slid slowly across. With her right foot she pushed off, then her left, then her right again, quickly gathering speed as she made a large oval around the rink. Then she was jumping, turning, then down again, speeding off in another direction. The names for the moves came back to her even as her body remembered how to do them, and she was moving to the music, letting it guide her in an improvised dance.

It was only when the music came to a stop, when it had settled her into a bow, one leg back, other knee bent, her arms crossed over her heart, her head bowed low, and she heard Spike and Dawn's enthusiastic applause, that she became fully aware of where she was. She looked up, embarrassed.

"Shall I start it again?" Spike asked, smirking.

"No, but thank you," Buffy said, as she skated back to the bleachers and sat down to change back into her shoes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They got back to the Summer's home very late, after two, and the stillness of that hour at this time of the year was a good example of where the phrase "dead of winter" came from.

Buffy hadn't spoken on the trip back, but there was a small smile on her face that encouraged both Dawn and Spike.

"You're coming in, aren't you?" Dawn asked the vampire as she and Buffy started towards the house.

Spike hesitated. "I... let me just get something out of the back. I'll be up in half a mo'"

Dawn went straight for the kitchen to start some cocoa while Buffy sat in the easy chair beside the tree. Spike entered the house and pushed the door shut behind him. Buffy looked up to see he carried two packages under his arm. She furrowed her brow in question.

"What are those?" Dawn asked, re-entering the living room. "Are they for us?"

Spike seemed embarrassed. "I didn't want to make a big deal about them," he said, "and before you say anything, Slayer, they're not stolen. I had these, had 'em for years."

"Ooo," Dawn said, sitting on the floor beside Buffy, "gimme, gimme, gimme."

"Dawn..." Buffy said reprovingly.

"S'all right, then, Slayer," Spike said gently. "It's Christmas, after all." He sank to the floor across from them and handed the smaller package to Dawn. "Dru... She liked me to read to her, and I bought this to amuse her one year. I found it after she left and kept it. There's notes and things in the margins. You can probably ignore them."

Dawn carefully undid the wrapping and extracted a yellowed chap-book: "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens.

"Oh my God," she said. "Is this a first edition?"

Spike chuckled. "No, I'm not *that* old," he said. "But Dru just adored it. I know you've probably read it..."

"Actually, no," Dawn said. "But I saw the movie."

"Was it the George C. Scott version?" Spike said. "Cause that was a good one."

"Maybe," Dawn said. "Was that the one with the Muppets?"

Spike smirked, then passed the larger package to Buffy. "This was mine," he said. "Um... Angelus gave it to me for Christmas in 1892."

Buffy undid the paper and pulled out a long, surprisingly delicate dagger.

"It's part of a dueling set," Spike said. "French, I think."

Buffy turned the blade in her fingers. "It's a good weapon," she said. "Nicely balanced. Thank you."

"Yeah, thank you," Dawn echoed. "For everything."

In the kitchen the teapot whistled, and Dawn rose to get it. Alone together, Buffy met Spike's eyes and she gave him an appraising look. "This doesn't change anything," she said.

"I don't expect it to," Spike said defiantly. "I'm here for little bit, not you."

Dawn came back with three mugs on a tray. "Hot cocoa?" she said.

Spike got to his feet and took a cup, then handed a second to Buffy. "You are your mother's daughter," he told Dawn fondly. "Even remembered the little marshmallows."

Buffy shuddered in spite of herself. She had forgotten the strange relationship Spike had had with her late mother, the ear she had given him from time to time when he was near despair. Buffy wondered what she would think if she were still alive. Would she think Buffy was foolish for letting things get so out of hand, or in some weird way, would she understand?

Spike and Dawn had sat back down, now, and the vampire was paging carefully through the gift he'd given Dawn. "Christmas is the time for ghost stories in England," Spike was saying. "Lots of people wrote them. This one's just the most famous. Good scary stuff, too."

"What was Christmas like when you were young?" Dawn said.

Spike smirked. "A young human or a young vampire?"

"Human."

"Should have chosen vampire. S'lot more interesting story. Christmas wasn't big in my house. With my father gone, mother didn't feel much like doing things up. A few gifts, mostly practical things."

"Vampire, then," Buffy said suddenly, and Spike gave her a look of surprise.

"Well... Angelus, he always threw some great parties. Lots of prezzies for all of us. Vampire presents, of course, like the stiletto there. Jewelry for the ladies. That kind of thing."

"What else?" Buffy demanded.

"Oh, our tree," he said, addressing Dawn's interest. "We picked the best decorations. Black velvet ribbons, blood red glass, the little dolls that Dru had pulled the heads off of. Good times."

"And what was under the tree?" Buffy asked pointedly.

"Presents," Spike said, fixing her with a level gaze.

"I heard some of your presents had mothers and fathers looking for them."

"You heard wrong," Spike shot back. "They were orphans, mostly."

Buffy's lip curled in disgust. "I can't believe you would pervert Christmas that way," she said.

"I'm a vampire," Spike said angrily. "And it was all your precious Angel's idea, anyway."

"Knock it off," Dawn shouted. "You promised..."

"Dawn, not now," Buffy said.

The younger girl raised her cocoa cup and dashed it to pieces on the hearth stones. "You promised," she repeated.

"Dawn!" Buffy turned to her sister, fire in her eyes, then continued in a strained voice, "maybe you should go to your room."

"I'm not..."

"Sister's right," Spike said quietly. "This isn't for you. I'll come up to say goodbye before I go."

"You promised," Dawn said a third time, before fleeing the room and pounding up the stairs.

Buffy glared at Spike, who was regarding her with an amused expression.

"She's right," he said. "We did promise to be civil for her sake. And you're the one who brought up... Never would have mentioned it if you hadn't."

"I'm not having this argument, Spike," Buffy said. "Go tell Dawn good night and get the hell out."

"You can put up all the walls around yourself you want, Slayer," Spike said, "but I'm gonna keep getting behind them, and at the end of the day, that's what you need."

"I don't need you."

"Keep telling yourself that," Spike said, as he followed the younger Summers up the stairs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Spike entered Dawn's darkened room and sat on the edge of the bed beside her shaking form. He touched her back, patting it lightly, still uncomfortable with this kind of soothing behavior.

"Don't cry, now, Little Bit," he said.

"I'm not crying," she said.

"Well, sit up, then. Can't talk to you properly like that."

Dawn rolled over and sat up. "She ruins everything," she said. "I just wanted Christmas to be nice."

"It was nice," Spike said. "Didn't you see the look on her face? She loved that you did that for her."

"You did it, too," Dawn insisted. "Why does she have to be so mean to you?"

Spike looked down at Dawn's blanket and picked at a stray thread there. "Your sister and me... we have some things we need to work through," he said. "It's not anything to do with you, but it's not going to be pretty, pet. You just have to let us do what we have to. Okay?"

Slowly Dawn nodded.

"Alright, then," Spike said, and he put an arm around Dawn's shoulders and gave her a small hug.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"How is Dawn?" Buffy asked when Spike came back down.

"She's okay," Spike said. "You might want to talk to her, though."

"I will," Buffy said. "Look... I'm sorry about before. You're right, I shouldn't have brought those things up just to start an argument."

Spike gave a start of surprise, then smirked. "I accept your apology," he said.

"And thanks for... everything."

"Well, it's for Dawn, isn't it," Spike said, and he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. "Good night, Slayer. And Merry Christmas." He was out on the sidewalk and starting for home, when he heard Buffy's door open again, and her footsteps hurrying after him. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply.

Spike wound his own arms around her waist in an embrace, leaning into the kiss, and then she broke away and stepped back a few feet. She regarded the vampire with an expression equal parts loathing and desire for several long moments.

Spike took a step towards her. "Buffy, I..."

Then she turned and ran back into her house, closing the door behind her.

Spike watched her go, then started again for his crypt, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Joyce’s Secret Hot Cocoa Recipe**

_“The secret ingredient is ‘love.’” – Joyce_  
• 2 to 3 oz. milk chocolate (12-18 kisses)  
• 1 tsp. butter  
• ¼ tsp. vanilla  
• 1 cup half-and-half or cream  
In a double boiler combine chocolate, butter, and vanilla. Stir together until completely melted and smooth. Add cream slowly, incorporating gradually as it heats, but do not boil. Serve with those little marshmallows Dawn likes, if desired, and garnish with a dash of nutmeg.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Spike’s Beggars in Rum**

_“A bowl of these, and Dru’s Christmas present was out for the count. Really cuts down on the squealing. Plus, bonus for me, a minimum of work.” – Spike_  
• 1 ½ cups (12 oz.) pitted prunes  
• 1 cup golden raisins  
• 1 ½ cups (8 oz.) dried figs  
• 1 cup (6 oz.) dried apricots  
• 1 cup dark raisins  
• 1 1/3 cups Rum  
• 1 1/3 cups water  
• 1 cup sugar  
In each of 3 wide-mouth, 1-pint jars, layer 1/3 of the prunes, golden raisins, figs, apricots, and dark raisins. Should make a nice stripy pattern. Add 1/3 cup of rum to each. In a saucepan, mix water and sugar; bring to a boil over high heat. Pour hot syrup into each jar; fill to within ½-inch of the top. Cover; let stand until fruits are plump, at least 1 week. Check after two days; if fruit is dry on top, add rum to cover. Serve, or store in a dark, cool place up to 2 months.  
Not that I care, but I’m told a jar or two of this makes a good homemade Christmas gift, if you’re into that kind of thing.  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. The Saint Stephen’s Day Murders: Xander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a Chieftains song about how the holidays with the family is nice, but it’s also nice to send them all home.

**6:27 p.m., December 25th, 2001**

Dinner had been a bit tense, to say the least. Everything had started over a week ago as plans were being made. Dawn had asked if anyone had thought to invite Tara, and Willow and Xander had exchanged looks. Anya, bless her heart, just started talking about how adding another person would be no problem since all her recipes made so much more food than they could all eat, but Willow took Xander aside later and said she would probably not be coming.

She insisted it was because as a Jewish Wiccan, she really had no interest in Christmas, but she must have felt the mistrust and lingering anger from Tara and Anya, and, yes, even Xander, would have had to be made of stone not to feel it, and even though Xander would never admit it, her bowing out was something of a relief.

Not that everything was warm and fuzzy in her absence. Anya was a basket case over the cooking, Tara was depressed and moody, and Dawn was angry at Buffy about something. Not long past sunset Spike had shown up, first becoming furious that Xander refused to invite him in, then threatening to stand in the hallway and yell unless Buffy came out and talked to him. She did, and the two actually left for over an hour. They must have come across some bad guys, too, because she returned with a bruise on one cheek and her face all flushed.

Oh well, at least the ham and sweet potatoes Anya had made were pretty good.

Now they were all in the living room, TV on in the background, making uncomfortable small talk, while Anya and Xander cleared and washed the dishes. Xander had half a mind to tell them all to go home, shove them out the door, but it was still early, really, only 7:30.

“Let’s go to the movies,” he announced, and all four women stared at him.

“We can’t go to the movies,” Anya said. “It’s Christmas.”

“So? The theatre’s open. What’s stopping us?”

“It’s not traditional,” Anya said. “None of the TV specials have people going to the movies for Christmas. It’s much more appropriate to…build a snowman, or help some old person learn to feel the spirit of the season.

“An,” Xander said. “There isn’t any snow and this isn’t a movie of the week. We can make our own traditions.”

“Well…” Anya was considering.

“What movie.?” Dawn asked.

“Who’s up for ‘Lord of the Rings?’”

“Me!” Dawn said quickly.

Anya slowly began to nod. “Entertainment Weekly did give it an ‘A.’ Despite the historical inaccuracies.”

Tara bit first, “Inaccuracies?”

“There were twelve in the historical Fellowship,” Anya informed them, “but there was bad blood between some of them and Legolas had their presence suppressed in the official records.”

Tara and Xander were shocked. “You’re kidding?” Xander said.

Anya gave him a smug smile. “Yes, I’m kidding,” she said. “Really, Xander, Hobbits? You should have seen your face, though.”

Buffy and Dawn laughed gently. “Xander’s right,” Buffy said. “Who says we can’t. Let’s go.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sunnydale’s main street was almost deserted, and despite being brightly lit, the Sun movie theatre looked empty and abandoned. Xander bought all their tickets, pointedly ignoring Anya’s frantic gestures not to, but Tara and Buffy insisted on buying snacks.

They entered the dim auditorium and Xander was pleased to see they were not the only ones there. There were a few couples, some families, and here and there a person sat alone.

Near the front, all the way to the right, he spotted the back of a familiar head: Willow.

“I’ll be right back,” he told the girls, and walked up to where she was sitting. He slid into the seat beside her, and only then did she look up.

Her eyes were bright and swollen, and she wiped at them with the sleeve of her sweater, which she’d pulled up over her hand.

“Are you okay?” Xander asked her, and she nodded, belying the evidence of her tears.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Pretty much exhausted the entertainment options at Maison Harris,’ he said. “Thought we’d take in a flick.” He glanced back at the others, and wasn’t surprised to see them watching him, though they all (except for Anya) averted their gazes when they saw him turn.

“How did dinner go?” Willow said.

“Good,” Xander said. “Anya’s a pretty good cook, and I don’t mean that in the ‘little woman’ sense of the word, I mean it in the ‘I’m grateful she feeds me and I don’t die’ sense.”

“I’m glad.”

“I missed you,” Xander said.

“It’s better I wasn’t there,” Willow told him. “Tara wouldn’t have come if I did and that wouldn’t be fair to her.”

“Still,” Xander said, “there was a Willow-shaped hole in the day.” He glanced back again. “Why don’t you join us.”

“I don’t think…”

“Look. Tara’s all the way at one end of the row next to Dawn. You can sit at the other end of the row with me.”

Willow looked back and swiped at her eyes again. “They hate me, Xander.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“They do,” Willow insisted. “And I don’t blame them. Or you.”

“Listen to me,” Xander said. “They…*we* don’t hate you. Are disappointed and hurt, yes. And you’re going to have to earn our trust back. But we don’t hate you.”

Willow wiped away a few more tears and sniffed. “Thanks,” she said. “If you’re really sure…”

“I’m really sure,” Xander said.

Tara and Willow’s eyes met as Xander and Willow took their seats, but Tara’s eyes grew hard and she quickly looked away. Willow’s eyes went soft with hurt, but then the movie was starting, and everyone focused their attention on the screen to avoid any more pointed glances.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The credits began to roll, and Xander looked over to see Willow already on her feet. “Thanks,” she told her friend, giving his shoulder a squeeze, and then she was gone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Xander put on the new flannel jammies Anya had given him and climbed into bed beside her. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her bare shoulder.

“Alone at last,” he said, and she snuggled back against him. 

“Xander?” she said quietly. “Is it… okay to feel relief that today is over?”

Xander smiled at his fiancee’s attempt at tact. “Of course,” he said. “Perfectly okay and completely normal.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “Because I do. Feel relief. An overwhelming release of tension that all of them have gone, and the dinner is over, and I don’t have to worry about any of this for another eleven months.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “Me, too.”

She turned in his embrace to face him. “Really?” she said. “But you were so excited…”

“I was,” Xander affirmed. “And it was nice. And dinner was fantastic. But it’s good when they all go home, too.”

Anya sighed. “Good,” she said, then kissed her husband-to-be softly. “Merry Christmas.”

Xander held her a little tighter. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anya’s Leftover Turkey Divan 

4 t butter   
2 t flour   
1 c cream   
2 c diced turkey   
4 spears broccoli, sliced lengthwise  
1/2 t mixed vegetable seasoning   
1/2 c Parmesan cheese, grated 

In a sauce pan, melt butter and gradually stir in flour to make   
a smooth paste. Slowly add cream and whisk until smooth. Place   
turkey in baking dish, alternating with layers of broccoli spears.   
Pour sauce over all and sprinkle on vegetable seasoning. Top with   
Parmesan cheese. 

Bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes; cheese will be bubbling   
and slightly browned.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


End file.
